


Conversations Overheard at the Ruddy Duck Inn  (The Men, The Myths, The Mischief)

by WhenBachDropsTheBeat



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2020-10-25 19:53:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 30,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20729858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhenBachDropsTheBeat/pseuds/WhenBachDropsTheBeat
Summary: Each chapter is spun out of scraps of conversations that cannot be shoe-horned into any writing projects. So, I thought I'd make a collection of short scenes to give a home to some of these odds-and-ends. I've placed the scenes into a creation of my own: The Ruddy Duck Inn (first mentioned in an earlier fic). Please note: I am not following any particular time line. Just seemed like the fun thing to do. Hopefully, you will be entertained by: The Men, The Myths, The MischiefChapter 10: Christmas and The Stupid AngelChapter 11: In Every Season - SpringChapter 12: Where There Is Smoke...Chapter 13: To Be Or Not To Be... FrenchChapter 14: Tréville 1: Long Story - Shortened Considerably by Athos





	1. Sworn To Protect

**Chapter 1: Sworn To Protect**

“W-will it be okay? Be honest, Athos. OW!”

“If by ‘_okay_’, you mean: will your bedroom eyes still be able to evoke _the bedroom_ rather than _the beating_ you just took?” Athos asked calmly as he ignored Aramis’ theatric mewling and squirming to reach for the warm wet cloths that had just been brought to their table. “Yes, brother. Your face will be fine. Now hold still.”

Sighing, the older musketeer allowed that perhaps the man’s squirming had some merit. In the aftermath of the fight, as they tallied up their collective bruises and abrasions, Aramis truly seemed to have gotten the worst of the punches thrown in the fracas fought to save the Ruddy Duck Inn and its owner Monsieur Didier Emile Pépin.

It wasn’t the first time the Ruddy Duck had seen rough-and-tumble action, unfortunately. This time the musketeer melee had little to do with a tolerable evening of playful drinking, gambling and bragging. Tonight, the inn had unwittingly hosted a dozen unruly soldiers from the prime minister’s Red Guard - intent on making havoc in their evening out on the town.

Perhaps they had not considered that this part of Paris, however, was the designated playground of the King Louis’ soldiers, the company of musketeers from a garrison just a few streets away.

Or perhaps they did.

Tonight, the bane of Monsieur Pépin’s commercial existence, the four kings men from Captain Jean Treville’s regiment were the saviors of the Ruddy Duck Inn and the Pépin family.

The Red Guard were properly routed and while Pépin rushed to right tables and chairs, the Pépin women rushed to provide aid for their four heroes.

Or at least one of their heroes.

“Ow! OW! Mother of God! Those brigands had no finesse in their fisticuffs! Nor did they have any semblance of honor or respect!I _hate _it when they think it is a requirement of engagement with me to go after my face!” Aramis moaned.

“So do we, brother, so do we,” Porthos crooned sympathetically patting his friend atop his head of dark, soft curls, now disarrayed and matted with sweat and blood after the epic brawl.

“Yes, we certainly do hate it when such a precious commodity is singled-out for such rabid punishment,” Athos added drolly as he lightly swabbed the swiftly-coloring bruises on Aramis’ handsome visage with wet cloths. “As do Monsieur Pépin’s daughters.” He smiled brightly up at the two young ladies that had hurriedly brought more water - hot and cold - and a bundle of linen bandages that surely could have stocked a field hospital to Aramis’ side.

Aramis seemed unaware of the ladies fawning nearby. He was blinking at Athos, eyes round and showing the beginnings of panic. “R-Rabid? What are you saying, Athos! I- I thought you said my face was fine! I asked you to be honest. Don’t spare my...”

“Tsk, brother. Calm yourself. Would I lie to you? This, after all, is The Face that has launched a thousand bar fights.”

“And duels,” Porthos added, scratching his chin, searching his memory for recollections of the countless encounters referred to.

“And let’s not forget those exhilarating chases through the streets of Paris! All because of this Face!” Athos chimed in again helpfully. “Does anyone recall the name of that last musclebound cuckold hound who kept pace with our fleet-footed brother fox - _and us -_ for an alarmingly long time on the wharfs?”

“Pierpont,” Aramis answered with a derisive snort that frankly made his nose hurt. “And you may leave off with the fox-and-hound comparisons... Ow!”He winced and twitched away from Athos’ semi-gentle attentions, only to have his head brought firmly back into position by Porthos’ large hand on top of his pounding, aching skull.

He might have pouted at the big man if his lower lip didn’t already feel as if it had swollen to twice its size. Instead, he continued to grumble about the Pierpont affair. “That marriage was such a sad waste of a beautiful woman - and soul!To be harnessed to such a brutish beast... OW! Sweet Baby Jesus, Athos! Don’t you have some small kittens to drown or - or - some crippled grandmother to rob of her cane? Or are you simply content to continue to ply me with your torments?” 

“The more you pontificate, the more I ‘ply’, _mon cher_. Now, be still.”

“I remember that chase!” d’Artagnan chortled as he approached with a tray of cups and a full jug of warm ale, picking his way through a jumble of overturned tables and chairs and casting a brilliant smile at Monsieur Pépin’s two appreciative daughters. “I seem to remember that big guy swearing that he would kill the first one of us that he could get his hands on,” he continued. “Whether that would be Aramis and his Face or not.” 

All three paused to look quizzically at the tray and then at their youngest brother.

“Oh. Uh… this from Monsieur Pépin. He sent us the drinks - and he told me Madame Pépin is preparing food for us as another gesture of gratitude for our help ridding the Ruddy Duck of its Red Guard pestilence tonight.“

He grinned, then grimaced, as he looked at the others. They all bore evidence of the recent Ruddy Duck imbroglio in which they managed to save their little innkeeper and his family from the rowdy Red Guard an hour earlier. “Well anyway, since I easily far outpaced you lot the night of that particular chase, I don’t recall ever hearing how that effort to save Aramis’ pretty Face -“

“And his pretty ass!” Porthos boomed merrily.

“Yes..uh... Also... uhm... That,” d’Artagnan agreed. “So, how did that chase end? Who saved whom?”

“I only needed to be faster than either Porthos or Athos, didn’t I? Fortunately, I was motivated by more than the brutish Pierpont’s threats,” Aramis confessed, not a whit of sheepishness or regret apparent. “I was already late for an assignation with another young lady that afternoon, so I moved a fair bit faster than they did. I had a mere short sprint to the lady’s doorstep, and she was kind enough to take me in and engage with me in a different type of chase.”

The suddenly black looks from the others gave him pause, so he extended a slightly more apologetic addition. “That said, my beloved brothers, I hope that chase didn’t inconvenience any of you too much.”Aramis instinctively started to offer his most winning smile, but winced when his split lip sent a tiny shock wave of pain along his jaw and started to bleed freely again.

“Tsk. You are undoing all the work I have done to return your devastating good looks to you.”Athos shook his head and pressed another warm wet cloth to Aramis’ mouth gently as he mildly rebuked his injured friend. “Do not concern yourself about that day, _mon cher_. Don’t you know how fond Porthos and I are of forced sprints through the city? Every now and then, such alarming exercise does wonders for the spirit! Regarding the harrowing Pierpont Affair At The Pier - perhaps you will remember, Aramis, that your circle of affectionate admirers also includes a number of the fishwives you so frequently shower with your charms on market days?”

Aramis quirked one eyebrow quizzically at his blue-eyed friend even though the little gesture pumped another spasm of pain over his eye.

Athos continued, ”They conspired to empty a barrel of fish heads and entrails into Pierpont’s path after I had ran past them - hindered though I was by my valiant effort not to spill my half-full cup of wine. I was trailing Porthos, as I recall, by about one or two bottles of expensive wine, already consumed. Your ladies’ fishy slurry sent our pursuer over the wall and into the harbor waters where he may very well have keel-hauled himself for all I know. I did not linger, except to doff my hat and say a polite ‘thank you’ to your ladies.“

“Just another of the many _predicaments_ and the many _places_ that we have pulled you - and your Face - out of, lest we forget!“ Porthos exclaimed.

“Also not forgetting the many places we have shoved him _into_ to hide that pretty Face. From the husbands, the boyfriends, the fathers -“

“Hmm. Yes, well, let’s not forget the ladies we also had to hide the Face from! The spurned, the love-struck, the obsessed, the -“

“Are you all quite finished?” Aramis grumbled into the bloody cloth Athos held at his mouth.

“Not as long as you’ve got that Face, _mon cher_,” Athos said with a sweet smile. “And as long as you have it, we are fraternally sworn to protect it.”

“As well as whatever the hell else it is y’ve got that keeps ‘em comin’ around like moths to flame,” Porthos said with a wink.

“All’s well that ends well,” Athos said by way of a toast as he raised the gifted jug of ale. “All for one... Face.”


	2. Marking Territory?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Athos diplomatically de-escalates a crisis but is left with an intriguing image and a question to ponder.

**Chapter 2: Marking Territory?**

Aramis sat heavily beside Athos on the narrow bench and wedged himself between the older musketeer’s shoulder and the wall. There was no word of greeting, no word of explanation for this sudden need for close quarters.

As Aramis pulled out a small book and thumbed stiffly through its pages, he austerely ignored the look from Athos that managed to be both quizzical and annoyed.

From the set of the man’s finely shaped jaw, Athos could tell his friend was not happy.

“Comfy?” Athos asked in his most practiced ironic tone. He had anticipated a quiet night of drinking in this corner of the Ruddy Duck Inn. Alone.

“Yes. Thank you for asking. Carry on. Don’t mind me.” Irony free. Classic Aramis.

The older musketeer resorted to an aggrieved sigh which he knew would fall on deaf ears. Predictably, Aramis made no attempt to acknowledge Athos’ signals of minor aggravation nor did he move from his wedged-in position at Athos’ shoulder. There would also be no explanation of why he chose this exceedingly dim corner of the room to read a book.

Across the room, the odd scene had caught the attention of one of his other brother-in-arms - Porthos. The big man looked up briefly from his gaming table to cast a questioning look at Athos.

When Athos simply shrugged, Porthos shrugged in response and returned to his cards.

Athos was not a big believer in coincidence though.

Therefore when the door of the Ruddy Duck Inn swung open scant moments after Aramis’ appearance at his shoulder and d’Artagnan strode in with a gruff, uncharacteristic swagger, the swordsman was not surprised in the least.

Beside him, Aramis had not stirred from his intense study of the small book he had gripped in his hand with white-knuckled ferocity. Other than that small hint of fury, his handsome companion seemed serene and undisturbed by the thunderous approach of their younger friend. 

Even as Aramis made a pretense of not noting the arrival of the very unhappy fourth of The Inseparables team, it was noticed by their other brother Porthos, who looked up once again from his game of faro and frowned.

d’Artagnan approached in a mist of anger, stopping before Athos, feet spread in an aggressive stance and fists planted ferociously on each hip. His glower shot past the older musketeer to the serene younger man wedged behind Athos’ shoulder, reading.

“Athos! I need you to pass along a message to Aramis!”

Athos paused the lift of his glass of wine to cast a languid glance from d’Artagnan to Aramis, then back to d’Artagnan.

“What makes you think I know where he is?”

“I am tired of his sanctimonious lecturing!”

“Noted,” Athos said with a nod to the young man and finished his drink.

As he poured himself another cup of the wine that had suddenly become more medicinally than recreationally necessary, he addressed the man sitting beside him congenially, “Racking up the aggravation points today, are you, brother? What was the lecture this time? An admonition against vice and an instruction on virtue? Or was it an admonition against virtue and an instruction on vice? I can never keep your lectures sorted out as the outcomes all inevitably seem to be the same.”

“I did _not_ lecture d’Artagnan. He is being childish.” Aramis quietly huffed beside him without looking up from his book.

“What did he dare say!” d’Artagnan snapped.

“Who?”

“ARAMIS! Him! He’s right next to you!”

“Is he?” Athos swiveled his head round to the marksman who had still not looked up from his apparently absorbing read.

“I heard him! He called me ‘childish’! Tell him he’s one to talk! Tell him that he is in no position to lecture ME about women! Tell him, Athos!”

“Who?”

“Goddammit, Athos! Aramis! Aramis - sitting right there! Next to you! He lectured me about my behavior with one of the ladies at court -”

“Kindly tell the _boy_ to lower his voice in here, Athos,” Aramis hissed as he delicately licked a finger and used it to casually flip the next page in his book. “There are many ears here at the Ruddy Duck that would be eager to hear about _affaires de coeur_ at the palace.”

‘Right!” d’Artagnan snarled. “Especially when they have the palace’s star player in their midst!”

“Athos…,” Aramis was growling now. The tips of his delicately shaped ears were coloring, shell pink to violent red.

Athos’ eyebrows arched a bit at that sight, as if seeing some new and curious phenomena.

“Please, brother.“ Aramis’ soft, cultured voice trembled under his rapidly thinning control. “If you can - lower the volume of noxious noise coming from that end of the table. I fear we are drawing attention, and I will never be able to finish this volume of poetry in peace.”

His demeanor remained calm but his words were tinged with warning and provocation in equal measure. Never a good sign, given the swiftness with which Aramis’ moods could change.

He had still not looked up from his book, though, even as heads began to turn toward him.

Athos noted the growing attention among the inn patrons. They were regarding the handsome marksman with the fiery ears with more than the usual interest he inevitably attracted.

Several tables away, Porthos had abandoned his game of cards with a heavy sigh. He was familiar with what these rising attentions might portend. He caught Athos’ eye and nodded in answer to the older man’s somber signal. 

An intervention was in order.

“Aramis!” Porthos’ booming voice was deliberately light and decidedly merry as he approached the table. “Perhaps you would help me move Madame Pépin’s wash tubs out to the alley? Pépin himself, it seems, is unable to help her. He is frozen in fear in the corner, fretting that he might be called upon to keep the peace out here - “

Porthos cast a significant look at the young angry musketeer as he took the other angry musketeer by the collar of his doublet and jerked him unceremoniously to his feet. “- as the poor man has become alarmed by the increasing volume and fervor in our younger brother’s voice.”

“Oh?” said Aramis with maddening coolness as he dangled from Porthos’ grip. “Has d’Artagnan been speaking?”

At that, Porthos snatched the book from Aramis and pocketed it. Giving the marksman a dark look that indicated he would brook no resistance nor complaint, he successfully frog-marched Aramis toward the inn’s kitchens without resistance or complaint.

Athos watched d’Artagnan punch at empty air as he fumed and paced.

Athos was not one to react to the histrionics of youth, especially if they were acted out right in front of him and an unfinished bottle of wine.

He refilled his wine cup, checked the bottle to assure himself he had enough alcohol remaining to get him through this event, and reached for his long meerschaum pipe and packet of imported tobacco.

He concentrated on his serene ritual of packing and lighting the elaborately carved pipe while d’Artagnan raged on before him.

Pulling several long deep breaths at the top of the pipe’s long stem until the carefully selected mix of tobacco leaves in the pipe’s bowl glowed with a steady ember and the fragrant cloud of smoke circled his head and filled his lungs, Athos settled back and watched their youngest’s agitated pacing.

“How dare he tell me which women I may or may not pursue!”

“I am certain that Aramis was merely warning you away from your lady friend at court who is - ”

“Who is Aramis! Who is he to issue warnings about women to me!” d’Artagnan squawked, interrupting his sage, older friend.

“Aramis the Libertine!” the distressed young man shouted to no one in particular.

_This is not new information_, Athos thought, amused.

“Why should I listen to the most fabled Lothario in Paris!”

_Also not new information_.

“Has he pissed in every corner of this town? In all of France, perhaps?”

_Well, that is certainly a new and alarming thought_!

“Does he think he can mark his territory like a rutting stag?”

Athos coughed and leaned forward at that, one hand pressed against his mouth to hide the grin prompted by the surprising, unintentionally funny image of Aramis that sprang up in his mind with d’Artagnan’s frenetic declaration.

“Well, I understand that Aramis had pinned your ears back on the matter of your romancing that particular lady. If you would just listen to - ”

“She’s beautiful! She’s rich! He just wants her for himself!”

_Ah! the eruptions and intimidations of hot-blooded youth and their ponderously swinging, bothersome cocks._

Athos shook his head and frowned. “Oh, I can promise you that he does not. If Aramis is warning you away from certain women in Paris society, d’Artagnan, you would do well to heed -”

“Fuck him! And the horse he rode in on!” The young man was punching at empty air again, stopping abruptly when he realized the attentions of the inn patrons had shifted to him.

“Let’s not, shall we?” Athos quietly drawled as he attempted to relight his pipe. “I can be coerced into admitting to a great affection for - and possibly a minor attraction to - the charms of Aramis. His ornery horse, however, is right out.”

“You think this matter humorous!”

“I assure you, there will be a time in your future that you will see the humor in this. But as regards the anger you are directing at Aramis right now, I advise you to set it aside and consider taking his advice seriously.”

“He’s not like you or Porthos! He’s harder to... to... to understand!”

“Hmph. I’d always thought of myself as the mysterious and unfathomable one of us. I’m hard-pressed to give that distinction up to Aramis. He’s far too mercurial to sustain the necessary level of detachment needed to maintain this demeanor. However, you may count on Aramis’ advice, d’Artagnan. In fact, I advise you to pay close attention to it.”

“Why should I?” d’Artagnan spat.

“Because our brother’s observations of the fairer sex can be quite insightful...”

“HAH!” d’Artagnan threw a hand up heavenward in disdain for that thought.

“He has, for instance, noticed that dear Madame Bonacieux seems to look at you quite longingly...”

That brought the boy’s attention around. The mood has shifted dramatically, Athos noted, taking a long draw on his pipe as he saw the young man’s eyes go round and mouth drop softly open.

“What?” d’Artagnan was breathless. “Constance?I... I thought she despised me!”

“Not according to Aramis’ information. He believes the young lady is absolutely besotted with you.” Athos quirked one eyebrow and worked hard to affect his most sincere look.

Aramis, in fact, had said he believed it was actually d’Artagnan who was besotted with Constance, but Athos told himself he could always blame the wine for his less-than-perfect recollection if called upon to defend his statement.

In any case, invoking the lovely Madame Bonacieux’s name had effectively cast oil on stormy waters. The young man before him was nervously fidgeting and looking toward the exit.

After a long moment of pacing that now revealed a case of nerves in place of the tower of anger that had animated the youth just minutes before, a new frenzy overtook the lad.He combed fingers nervously through his dark hair. He pulled his clothes into something resembling order and straightened himself to his full, slender height.

d’Artagnan spun toward Athos and said in a rush, “Please extend my apologies to Aramis and give him my regards. I would do so myself, but I have just recalled a task I must complete at the market place.”

He was edging toward the exit, thoughts clearly far from his trouble with Aramis now.

“I should... I must... I’ll take my leave, Athos. Forgive my interruptions. Good night.”

The young man was gone from the inn much more quickly and with much less noise than when he had arrived. Athos was sure all thoughts of his ill-considered palace romance had been driven from his mind at the mention of the lovely Madame Bonacieux.

His absence had left behind a blissful peace and quiet. Athos realized at least a dozen other patrons in the tavern were now regarding him as if he were a kind of wizard, having brought an end to a brewing storm.

Athos simply raised his glass to the on-lookers and announced, “The next time we hear that boy whine about women, we all get to take a drink!”

“Here! Here!” Cheered the rest of the tavern patrons.

“There. That’s settled, then.” Athos picked up his long pipe again and settled back onto his bench, content and undisturbed by poetry-reading agitators and insult-spewing firebrands.

He made a note, however, to discuss to this ‘marking of territory’ matter with Aramis as soon as Porthos and Madame Pépin had released him from some of the Herculean tasks that were being pressed upon him.

Was this truly a thing?

Surely that’s lust-and-courtship gone mad.

Aramis would know.


	3. "French Resistance"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I confess, having just enough French heritage in my gene pool (Haplo Group GTT —aka Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves), the first time I heard “French Resistance” used as an oxymoron, I got rather angry!  
So… Voila! A story was born.  
This entry is a bit “musketeer-lite” and no musketeers were harmed in its creation, but my hard drive is happily lighter for the posting of it.

**Chapter 3: “French Resistance”**

“Lisette! Sabine! No! Listen to me - your old Papa! Do not do this! Do not go to your musketeers!” 

Didier Emile Pépin, the rotund owner of the Ruddy Duck Inn, huffed and wheezed, his round cheeks reddening with the effort of trying to stay apace with his two tall willowy daughters as they marched indignantly several steps ahead of him.

He lowered his voice as he became aware of several of the inn’s patrons turning to watch the curious scene. The tone of his voice, however, had dissolved by necessity into an entreaty that was more begging than bidding. “Please, daughters! Do not approach those boys about the silly mutterings of drunken rabble-rousers! Do not interfere! More importantly, do not instigate!”

He stopped to lean on his bar, mopping his brow with the towel he had had tucked in the waist of his apron. “Think of the inn! Think of me!” he gasped after them. “Please, please - for God’s sake - think of the new crockery! It’s only just arrived to replace the damage from the last musketeer dust-up!”

Sabine, his lovely auburn-haired, green-eyed daughter stopped long enough to hiss at him, with an angry snap of her skirts. “They have made grievous slurs against French manhood, papa. Insults against our French men! Against all of France!”

“Insults! Meh! Slurs! Meh! These utterings mean nothing, my darlings! Nothing!” The pudgy little innkeeper spread his arms wide, trying to impart a sense of reason and pragmatism on this matter to his daughters. “Nothing compared to swords and fists! And broken crockery...”

Failure.

Pépin slumped against his recently repaired bar, watching in defeat, as his daughters hurried toward the table where Athos, Porthos, Aramis and d’Artagnan had arrived several moments ago and had already settled at their usual fireside table over drinks and a card game.

The Musketeers. _Treville’s “Inseparables” _Pépin_ thought woefully. Inseparable or separated - trouble followed them like the plague_.

Their peaceful scene was sure to change when his daughters were able to deliver the messages of effronteries overheard from the tableful of foul-natured guests on the other side of the room who had spent the last hour or so denigrating all things French as compared to their native, supposedly superior Netherlands. 

The old innkeeper looked mournfully over at the open crate of bowls and goblets that had been delivered a few hours ago. His daughters’ mission was sure to ignite trouble of the crockery-breaking, furniture-destroying kind. He had just started recovering from the last musketeer-driven adventure staged in his establishment.

“What has caused you so much excitement now, husband?”

MadamePépin’s musical voice sounded vaguely impatient as she hustled past him with two large empty trays. “Haven’t we got our hands full enough attending to our ten foreign provocateurs?”

She glanced back at the table in the near corner of the large room where the ten Dutch soldiers in question sat huddled over the warm sweet desserts she had just served to them. They were eating heartily enough even if they weren’t especially appreciative of the service nor mindful of their loud, boorish behavior.

_“Our daughters! _Look at them!” Her husband was waving a hand in the direction of the two young women. “We have raised our own traitors!_”_

Pépin rested his head in his hands, a gesture of despair. “I have not even finished the unpacking of the new crockery, yet by tonight’s end I am sure to have to spend _more_ money to keep our place furnished with tables that stand upright, chairs that don’t fold under customers for lack of the proper amount of supporting legs, plates that are whole, cups that don’t...”

Édith Pépin rolled her eyes at her husband’s theatrics. “Oh hush, husband. All is well. The peace will be kept. So, get busy - we have many other customers tonight.” She gently clattered the empty trays she held at him to distract him from his anxious perch by the bar. “It is useless to stand there and worry like a ninny. By the way, I have just served my special custard dessert to our noisy foreign guests. Do **_not_** charge them for it, Didier. Understand? I told them it was on the house - a good will gesture.”

Pépin’s eyes bulged. Had all the females in his life gone utterly mad?

“Do not charge them? For food? Food from _our_ larders? Food that we actually charge all of our other customers for? So now - we are in the charity business, my dearest darling! Whose good will, exactly, were you extending to those Rotterdam rotters?” he sputtered, arms waving pointlessly as he scurried after his wife toward the kitchen rooms.

“No, husband,” Édith Pépin said mysteriously. “The dessert I made for them is a new recipe. I have never made it here at the inn. So, in truth, it was not food that we would charge our customers for.”

Anxious and distracted, the tubby little innkeeper began wringing his hands, forgetting his wife’s treacherous gesture of largesse to well-heeled strangers whose pockets were certainly heavy with coin that should be meant for the inn’s meager coffers. He would have an insurrection to put down in the main room soon when stories of the Dutch behaviors fell upon the ears of those four handsome rapscallions in the King’s service.

Who had time to care about special treats for noxious customers?

“Those men have been spoiling for a fight since they came in, and you shower them with sweets and attention!”

“Christian kindness wins the day, husband.”

“Christian kindness!” Pépin snorted. “Do you suppose Christian kindness has arrived with Treville’s treasured foursome this time? No, I tell you! Our doom - and the doom of our new crockery - is certain. Those Dutch soldiers are spoiling to commence the next Northern War, woman! Right here! In my inn! They have your precious musketeers in their sites!”

“Now, Now - do not invoke wars. The Netherlands has not been a bother to France,” Édith Pépin hummed as she busied herself at the cooking fire. She paused and then added thoughtfully, “Mostly.”

“Right. _Mostly _not a bother_. _Yet they regard us like a conquered state rather than an ally,” Pépin grumbled.

“Well, you’ve always said, Didier: ‘The gold of the Dutch Republic is as welcome here as the gold of King Louis’ - may the good Lord protect and keep our king.” She crossed herself out of habit, offering up her reverence on behalf of France’s monarch.

“Yes, yes...So I’m a genius, and God bless King Louis.” Pépin continued his grumbling but surreptitiously followed his wife’s example with his own swift gesture of the cross that failed to impart the same level of reverence.

“Leave me, Didier! Our sweet boys will behave, I promise you. Go on! I have food to prepare for them. Young d’Artagnan is a growing boy and almost matches our mighty Porthos’s appetite. Like hungry bears, the both of them.”

She waved him back into the main room and he complied with even more resentment. “I hope you charge those hungry bears with fees that match those appetites too,” he snapped at her over his shoulder as he left.

Returning to the busy room, filled with a comfortable number ofnewcomers as well as regulars, all seemed peaceful for the moment.Looking over to the corner nearest to him, he tried to gauge the threat level again. His heart sank when he noticed that the arrival of the musketeers had, indeed, caught the attention of the ten men seated there.

Dutch military. In Paris as part of the recently arrived diplomatic corps.

When ten uniformed men from that corps had entered the Ruddy Duck Inn about an hour ago, Pépin was briefly ecstatic for the business. Within minutes, however, it was made clear these foreign soldiers were clearly not feeling obligated to hold up the _diplomatic _spirit of their larger contingent’s visit to Paris_._

What they lacked in the often boisterous, aggressive behaviors of Cardinal Richelieu’s Red Guard and King Louis’ Royal Guard of Musketeers, they quickly had made up in demanding, sharp-tongued behavior that thinly disguised their true boorishness.

Pépin and his family had spent the last hour bowing, scraping, apologizing, and placating.

His wife, had spent that same hour in the kitchens, pots and pans making angry clattering and clanging that (thankfully) drowned out his wife’s furious invectives against the problematic customers as she tried to placate their many demands and complaints about the food and drink. 

Her patience, too, was at an end. Or so he thought. Her sudden conversion to thoughts and practices of ‘Christian kindness’ was mystifying.

His daughters, however, had chosen a different path. Right to the table of the famed four from the garrison.

Pépin himself had almost let his own outrage override his usual anxiety and blindingly fierce pursuit of coin-and-customers. His two pretty daughters had suffered their remarks and insults throughout the entire last hour with a fair amount of dignity, but the slurs against King, country and - most of all - their beloved French kings men had brought them to the end of their patience.

When the four musketeers - the mischief-and-mayhem quartet that had been both bane and boon to Didier Emile Pépin and the Ruddy Duck Inn - had arrived for an evening of drink and camaraderie, the Pépin daughters were positive their handsome French heroes could solve their Dutch problem.

The tubby little innkeeper didn’t share their opinion, even though his affection for the four handsome gentlemen had inevitably grown over the last several months of their patronage of the Ruddy Duck Inn.

This current situation was not a problem that would be resolved diplomatically, he thought, as he heard another swell of raised voices and derisive laughter rise from the foreigners’ table.

Perhaps he would just have to bow to the inevitable. Maybe this time he could salvage something with his usual overabundance of caution when the musketeers were in the house. He reluctantly began placing the brand new plates and cups back into their straw beds in the delivery crates as he watched his daughters approach the table of their favorite kings men.

~~~~~*~~~~~*~~~~~*~~~~~

“Lisette! Sabine! Our lovely, little flowers! How are you both this evening?”

Aramis was the first to lay down his cards and rise from their table to bow in polite greeting to the two sisters. Noting their anxious expressions, he lifted Lisette’s hand and then Sabine’s, kissing each one politely while hiding a cautious scan of the room. “May we help you with anything?”

Athos, Porthos and d’Artagnan became alert as Aramis frowned and added, “You seem troubled.”

“O, monsieurs! We have come to warn all of you,” Lisette, the youngest of the two, whispered as she subconsciously pressed the hand that had been kissed by the devastatingly handsome king’s man over her heart. “That band of men… On the other side of the room. They are trouble.”

She and her sister nodded toward the ten men in the far corner of the Ruddy Duck Inn.

“Black uniforms with more over-starched lace and cumbersome braids than useful steel and dependable shot,” Athos said in a derisive yet quiet voice, casually returning his eyes to his hand of cards. “The fashionable Dutch military. I noticed them when we came in.”

“Aye,” Porthos growled, feigning interest in his own cards. “I overheard them making remarks ‘bout you, pretty man.” He looked up at Aramis, then over at d’Artagnan who had already seemed to be tensing for a brawl. “And you, youngster.” He laid his cards down carefully. “I didn’t pause to hear what they had to say ‘bout me ’n’ Athos.”

“That’s a shame, brother. They could very well have been quite complimentary about the two of us, being the more clever, much grander ones of our little group,” Athos drawled as he lay his own cards down and ignored the looks shot at him by Aramis and d’Artagnan. “Those fellows are most likely part of the entourage that arrived with the bevy of diplomats and financiers from the Dutch Republic a few days ago. It is unfortunate that while their superiors are busy with the discussions at Louis’ Court, these brigands are at liberty and finding mischief in their boredom. The inherent tensions between the Dutch and French that have stretched back for decades have already resulted in some occasional tussles in the streets of Paris since this delegation arrived in Paris.”

Two of the soldiers were rising slowly from the table across the room. The four brothers-in-French-Blue exchanged a knowing look. Apparently, another opportune occasion for a ‘tussle’ was about to present itself.

Their non-verbal exchange and the unsteady approach of the two trouble mongers was noticed by one other: Ruddy Duck’s grumpy, overcautious, beleaguered owner of the inn, Lisette and Sabine’s endlessly-exasperated father, Didier Emile Pépin.

“Lisette! Sabine! Come away. Papa needs your help, girls. Now!” 

Their father called to them in a low, warning rumble as he approached well ahead of the trouble headed toward the musketeers.

“Please, Monsieurs, take care! We believe they mean to do you harm. We have heard them voicing great insults about each of you!“ Sabine was whispering as they watched the two soldiers cross the open floor to approach their table.

Aramis and d’Artagnan gently pulled the two women away from their table and nodded toward their anxious father. The young ladies slipped away quietly to safety as the two musketeers returned their attention to the arrival of two obviously impaired visitors to their corner of the inn.

All around them, voices were beginning to go still. The inn was hushed with anticipation.

“AH! Gentlemen!” The heavily accented voice that suddenly boomed into the peculiar quiet seemed to be heavily slurred with liquor as well.

A large reddish-complected man with tightly curled, wheat-colored hair and a small severely trimmed beard of red-gold hairs, waxed and tamed into a sharp point at his chin, loomed over the musketeer table. His complexion was polished to a brazen red by an excess of booze and bravado. His grinning companion could have been a twin, so alike were they.

“We were just sharing some hilarious word play amongst us! We thought, as fellow soldiers, you might enjoy the humor in the one that my comrade Hans came up with the moment we saw you boys walk in.” He waved a hand sloppily over his shoulder in a very general direction to his companion and then toward the rest of his friends.

Porthos took that moment to quietly rise to his feet, making it his business to keep an eye on the tableful of troublemakers these two jesters had staggered away from. His brows knitted at the sight of the other eight drunken soldiers, noting with some astonishment that they all seemed to be leaning awkwardly upon each other now.

This was not going to be a challenge by any stretch of the imagination. Porthos felt mildly disappointed. He caught d’Artagnan’s eye and lifted his chin toward their supposed provocateurs while the most obnoxious of the two soldiers that had dared to cross into musketeer territory boldly carried on:

“Are you educated gentlemen familiar with oxymorons? Hmmmmm? Are you?”

Athos was rising from the table by now. “Our business usually requires us to be on the lookout for _morons_, chiefly,” he responded with a forced casualness. His hand slid to the hilt of his rapier. “I believe we may have found some - here - in this establishment.”He had bit back the rest of his intended insult.

Dulled by inebriation, the man barreled fearlessly and foolishly on: “Well, our man Hans just had us all laughing with a particularly brilliant oxymoron meant for you fellows.”

He swayed perilously close to Aramis, leered into the musketeer’s face and sniggered, “_French Resistance_! Isn’t that the finest, truest example of a...”

The event that prompted the abrupt break in the man’s poisonous insult had happened so quickly that time itself seemed to have been defied. Aramis stood over the big man, who now lay spreadeagled and senseless at his feet.

“Well, there’s the case against the so-called lack of resistance from we French,” Aramis proclaimed loudly as he shook out his clenched fist and rubbed at chafed knuckles. He leaned over the unconscious man’s companion and primly added, “You gentlemen seem to have made a strong case for the oxymoron ‘Dutch Courage’ though - so there’s that.”

While a chorus of cheers and applause broke out amongst the very French patrons of the Ruddy Duck Inn, d’Artagnan chortled, Porthos snorted and blew a kiss to Aramis, and Athos lifted his wine glass in an approving salute to his brother’s speed and wit.

The other Dutch soldier was swaying oddly on his feet by now, yet he still had enough fight in him to snarl at Aramis over the crowd noise. “I’ll see to it that you are thrown in prison for this criminal attack upon my comrade!”

“Oh? That presents a problem for me. I have no idea how to survive in prison, so I have only endeavored to commit those crimes that might merely earn me a stern look or a brief fierce lecture from a magistrate.”

“Or a spanking,” Porthos contributed helpfully.

“Yes, thank you for that, Porthos. Let’s not slide off point - just yet - into contemplations of the many forms of punishments for me that you are endlessly entertained by. This large, menacing-looking fellow standing before us means to drag me off to prison!”

“I’d like to see him try,” Porthos said with a throaty growl. He sent a brilliant but menacing smile at the man as he moved to stand beside Aramis.

The other Dutch soldier registered a comical look of alarm and tried to step back. That small action proved to be too much for his muddled brain. In the next moment his eyes rolled back, and he slumped to the floor.

Athos sighed as if personally affronted by the poor challenge put forth by these mouthy Dutch men. He came around the table to make a show of leaning over to study the two unconscious men who lay at their feet and peered up at his pair of brothers-in-arms. “Have you two just killed a few of the Dutch diplomatic contingency?”

Aramis and Porthos looked at each other - puzzled.

Amused by the weird turn of events, d’Artagnan pleaded with undisguised eagerness,“Can I be in the room when you two have to explain this to Captain Treville?”

“Well, perhaps _all_ of us will have to explain that -” They all turned to look in the direction that Athos was indicating.

Eight Dutch soldiers were bent over their respective places at their table, seemingly fast asleep. “What magic is this?” d’Artagnan said with astonishment.

“More importantly, will we get blamed for it?” Aramis added with a mix of wariness and wonder.

He was hard at the process of making sense of the improbable simultaneous torpor of ten healthy soldiers when a musical voice floated over the din, “Boys! Boys! Seat yourselves! Your dinners are ready.”

The gathering crowd parted neatly for the arrival of Madame Édith Auréle Pépin and her two daughters, all of whom were carrying large platters of steaming ham, chicken and vegetables and loaves of fresh warm bread.

Behind them, Didier Emile Pépin tottered along with tankards full of ale gripped in his chubby fists and one large bottle of wine tucked under his arm. His face glowed with apparent relief for the fortuitous turn in the growing hostilities that would have been staged in his inn, but his eyes belied his utter confusion over it all. He now had a ten unconscious miscreants to contend with, and yet not one musketeer pistol or rapier had been drawn!

The platters of food easily drew the musketeers back to the table as Madame Pépin began to order several of her known regular customers to return the pair of unconscious Dutch men on the floor to the company of their equally unconscious compatriots on the other side of the inn.

She was startled then charmed when Aramis took her hand and bowed before her, pausing her in the midst of her flurry of instructions to her helpers. “Thank you, madame, for watching over our souls tonight in the cleverest way imaginable. Will you kindly share with me the recipe for that wondrous custard that I saw you serving to our Dutch friends when we came in?” He kissed her hand and batted his dark eyes at her.

“Custard! Did he say custard?” Porthos howled in unison with d’Artagnan, their eager words tumbling over each other at the suggestion of such a delightful dessert. “May we...?”

“No, my dear brothers,” Athos broke in, rolling his blue eyes up at Madame Pépin in amusement and sending her an uncharacteristic wink. “I suspect that dessert was intended for the foreign guests alone. I’m sure the kitchens of the Ruddy Duck Inn are closed now for the evening.”

“That they are, my dear young men. Now, I fear you will have to eat your meals in haste. I had already sent word to Captain Treville about our problems here tonight, and his orders for you four have just now arrived.”

Beside her, Didier Emile Pépin gawked. When had all this happened?

Athos reached for the sealed note that the matron extended to them. Opening it, he read quietly and then told his brothers: “The captain is currently on his way to the Louvre to diplomatically discuss the peaceful removal of ten very sleepy Dutch soldiers from this establishment. For our part, we are to enjoy our brief, bloodless moment of fame, eat our fill and get our asses back to the garrison. Post haste. Treville’s choice of words, not embellished in any manner by me.”

He and Aramis grinned up at Madame Pépin as she stood beside her still befuddled husband. “This fame rightly belongs to you, madame, not us,” Athos said with a nod of respect.“We will take our leave soon and beg you both to allow our return to sample a less effective yet still delicious version of the custard you served to your other guests tonight.”

“But remember, my clever beautiful lady - you _must_ share tonight’s version of your useful recipe with me,” Aramis added with insistence as Porthos and d’Artagnan’s faces slowly registered understanding.

“Certainly, my darling Aramis,” Édith Auréle Pépin sang as she strode away from them. “And, dear boys, when you stop by to sample my most excellent custard, Monsieur Pépin and I will make sure that there will be no charge to any of you for it!”

Didier Emile Pépin came alive at that declaration.

He followed on his wife’s heels, burbling, “What? What? No charge! Édith! If these musketeers of yours aren’t the death of me, then your unfathomable gestures of Christian kindness surely will be!”

~~~~*~~~~~*~~~~~*~~~~~*~~~~~


	4. Baring The Family Crest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, yes, yes. It’s a Pun.  
( As opposed to one of those embarrassing internet spelling errors that keep me up nights: bare/bear, their/there, your/you’re, then/than, its/it’s, to/too and even two...et al on the endless English language list.)  
Argh! Now I’ve done it. No sleep for me. Stop rolling your eyes. Honestly, what did you expect by now?

~~~~~*~~~~~*~~~~~*~~~~~*~~~~~

“You! Stop! No, no, no, no, no! You can’t do that here!”

At the fuzzy edges of his awareness, d’Artagnan recognized the strained voice of the Monsieur Pépin, owner of the Ruddy Duck Inn and easily the most excitable publican in the entire city of Paris. With excruciating effort, he could make out the blurry figure of the little man, clutching anxiously at the stained apron stretched over his prominent middle, eyes bulging in a round face that was white with what seemed to be...

_Horror?_

The youngest musketeer’s vision swam again.From a point that seemed to hover just above his pounding, aching skull, he heard the immediate response to Pépin’s squawking.

The booming timbre of Porthos voice.

He could feel it trembling the timbers of the table beneath his belly.

_Porthos? Table? Belly?_ What had happened? Why was he here?

“I have customers! They are NOT paying to see this, Monsieur Madman!”

“Calm down, Pépin! An’ who ya callin’ a madman?” Porthos’ voice now had a growling undertone, a characteristic it acquired when the big man was equally annoyed and concerned. “Shut yer trap an’ help me get the kid’s wound uncovered for Aramis t’ do his magic.”

d’Artagnan became sluggishly aware of sodden leather being tugged down from his backside, prompting a sharp stabbing pain to bite at him in area high on the right side, above the firm muscular curve of his buttocks.

_Aramis? Magic? Wound! What the hell..?_

“d’Artagnan has taken a jab in the back cheek in an unfair fight!”, he heard Porthos continue to snap at Monsieur Pépin. “He needs a bit of fancy stitchery by Aramis. Right away. Garrison ain’t got any medical staff on duty. B’side, I ain’t carryin’ this kid another ten blocks.”

“There are people eating here!” Pépin was yowling.

“O’ course they’re eatin’, man! Yer runnin’ a public house, ain’t ya?” The big musketeer’s reply was thunderous and rung in d’Artagnan’s injured skull like a struck bell.

_Oh no..._

Had he truly been dropped in the middle of the busy common room of the Ruddy Duck Inn? What did the astonished stares of at least a dozen pub patrons mean?

Weakly moving his head to search for brother Porthos over his shoulder, d’Artagnan could make out Porthos’ dark handsome face crumpled in flummoxed dismay, frowning at the tubby little innkeeper as if the man had suddenly gone witless.

d’Artagnan’s head hurt. He vaguely remembered a heated brawl-and-duel in the churchyard at St. Catherine’s. Himself against a mouthy Red Guard that had persistently voiced his doubts about the skills of “one so young and reckless.”

The challenge had been swift in its beginning and swift in its end. He had been the victor, hadn’t he?

The searing pain in his backside and the throbbing of a tender knot on the side of his head seemed to indicate something had gone horribly, treacherously wrong when he turned his back on his defeated opponent.

He recalled the man, a notoriously dishonorable man, had been flanked by two friends. He should have known better. His last memory was of Athos’s angry shout ringing in his ears and the clanging and singing of steel caught up in battle again.

The fuzzy memories and the spiking pain in his backside brought him to the realization that he was in no position to argue against his need for medical attention - even in the midst of this most public arena of onlookers.

Their fascination did seem a bit untoward, however. That thought brought another realization to his muddled mind. The air settling on his backside was far too cold. And he felt too... free.

“M-my trousers...?” He flailed one arm helplessly as he lay on the table where Porthos had him efficiently pinned. He hurt everywhere.

He dragged his bleary gaze up to the nearest table to the shocked faces of one..?

No. Two?

Oh no...THREE!.

Three nuns!_Oh God, save me._

And the priest who accompanied them.

Seated at the table closest to Porthos’ ill-considered surgery site, the pious quartet had been startled from their peaceful afternoon repast by this new, disconcerting disturbance.

The young man was becoming gradually aware that he was in a position - a personally embarrassing one at that - that required him to voice an objection to his rather public exposition. “Oh no! No, no, no, Porthos, no! Aramis? Aramis! Help!”

“Quit yer squirmin’! Aramis’ll have ya fixed up in no time!” Porthos barked, one big hand pressed between his shoulders, pinning him to the table once again.

Was the man _blind_? Was he so focused that he could not see?

The sound of d’Artagnan’s distressed calls had summoned the other rogue successfully, though.

d’Artagnan saw Aramis pop up from behind Pépin’s bar. He had been hurriedly gathering any available cloth for bandages, grabbing any available alcohol for sterilization, and frantically searching for any sewing supplies that Madame Pépin inexplicably might have squirreled away there.

He saw the marksman-turned-emergency-medic press one white-knuckled fist to his mouth in consternation as he took in d’Artagnan’s plight, Pépin’s hysterics, and the complicated array of reactions from around Pépin’s admittedly crowded public house.

d’Artagnan’s awareness continued to blossom, from fuzzy confusioninto a horrified understanding of his immediate situation.

All merry chatter and clatter of dishes and cups in the room had ground to a complete halt. A bloody, squalling, bare-arsed musketeer had just been dropped in the middle of their otherwise very ordinary day. The looks of mixed fascination, amusement and indignation on the faces of people gathered around the room seemed to say there had been no indication this day at the Ruddy Duck would be so diverting from their hum-drum routines.

“Aramis! Where are you! Porthos, I swear you will pay for this.”

Porthos’ delightful rumble of poorly-timed mirth rolled over d’Artagnan’s noisy protests. “Calm down, little brother. Our pretty seamstress-brother is here to quite literally save your arse.”

“Mea Culpa! Mea Culpa!” Aramis’ flushed, anxious face appeared in front of d’Artagnan’s own as he crouched, with an armload of pilfered necessities. “I curse myself for my failure to adequately inform Porthos of the _total, precise_ scope of the _obvious_ plan.”

Aramis’ dark eyes lifted, transitioning from anxious to perilous, to meet their bigger brother’s eyes as the big man held d’Artagnan in place on top of the table.

In the middle of the Ruddy Duck Inn. 

“The _plan -_,” Aramis continued through gritted teeth, “ - had presupposed that in our haste to remove you from further harm, brother Porthos would have sought out a more secluded setting...Say, _for example_, Madame Pépin’s sitting room in the back of the inn!” Aramis huffed. That last bit seemed clearly marked for Porthos.

Porthos huffed back. “ ‘Need for speed’, ya said. An’ here we are! Mission accomplished. As always.” He glared back at the musketeer marksman with a wildly unearned smugness.

“Let us, at least, salvage our youngest’s dignity,” Aramis said as he fired a handful of linens over d’Artagnan’s head at Porthos while turning and flashing his most winning smile-of-assurance at the nuns and priest just behind his shoulder.

He quickly turned back to d’Artagnan when the young soldier began to struggle. “Forgive the delay, mon cher. I still need to find Madame Pépin’s sewing supplies before this _hastily_ improvised surgical theatre -” He returned to glaring up at Porthos. “ - here, in this _very exposed dining_ area - becomes truly untenable.”

“As if it hadn’t already passed that bloody mark when Porthos dropped mydrawers in front of a horde of...” d’Artagnan shouted at a volume that flushed his handsome face scarlet and set off a fresh round of thrumming in his head and stabbing pain on his backside.

He squeezed his eyes shut against the new onslaught of misery, but popped them open again as soon as he become aware of the sounds of a larger crowd gathering around him.

Aramis was gone from his sight. Again.

“ARAMIS! GODDAMMIT, ARAMIS! ”

“Language, sir!” The priest at the table nearest the stricken young man snapped as he shot to his feet and abruptly motioned to the three wide-eyed nuns to do the same. “We are leaving this den of iniquity!”

He stormed toward the door, Pépin stumbling in his wake, pleading for the mercy of God and the understanding of Mother Church. And the return of the good father’s business to the Ruddy Duck. God willing.

“Did he say ‘iniquity’ or ‘inequity’?” d’Artagnan wondered aloud.

“Depends on yer point o’ view, I guess,” Porthos responded with a shrug.

The wounded young man watched the three nuns follow their priest toward the door. Were they following at a much slower, seemingly reluctant pace?

By the time they had reached the exit, Aramis had darted back into view, triumphant, with thread and needle and more bandages in hand, Madame Pépin on his heels. He drew to a respectful halt as the little band of clergy passed by.

Behind him, Madame Pépin was huffing and puffing, holding a pot of steaming hot water and more wine. _For the wound care or...?_

The priest was scowling. The nuns, however, were nodding in passing, with more smiles of appreciation at the other handsome, dark-eyed musketeer who stood nearby with his fine plumed hat pressed reverently over his heart, his dark curls slipping enticingly over his brow and his charming look aimed directly at them.

_“_God save us! Can’t the man concentrate on the issue here for one damn moment without having his head turned?” d’Artagnan heard Porthos mutter from somewhere over and behind him.

The priest snapped yet another order to follow without hesitation, remonstrating with the nuns to not look back at the sordid scene they had just left.

The nuns all blushed and lowered their eyes obediently. One, however, leaned toward the handsome musketeer nearest them, whispering loud enough for the stricken d’Artagnan to hear, “We will pray most fervently for your young friend’s recovery, monsieur. We do so hope there won’t be any unsightly damage done to that perfect...“

She sent a lingering look at the glorious sight and blushed to a deeper pink. “Please be sure to thank him for this most precious memory. We shall cherish it. Forever.”

“At your service, Sister. You may count on me.”

“ARAMIS! So help me God...”

Right. The impatient patient.Aramis flipped his hat back on top of his head as Madame Pepin nudged him forward with a shake of her head and a roll of her eyes.

No sooner had the door closed on the assembly of holy people than it was thrown open again.

ATHOS! d’Artagnan had to blink back tears of joy and relief.

Surely _this_ brother, in his dignified manner, would save him from this musketeer madness and mortification wrought by these two.

“S’bout time, brother!” Porthos roared. “We left ya t’deal with the scoundrels what jumped the kid! Did ya also stop to have tea and biscuits with ‘em?”

“Athos! Athos! Thank God... “ d’Artagnan mewled as his older brother-in-arms slowly approached. “Where have you been? These two have made my humiliation complete! I shall never live this down!” d’Artagnan’s complaints spilled out of him as Athos calmly took the abandoned seat in front of him while the other two got busy, out of sight, behind him.

Athos paused to pour himself a glass of wine from the bottle that had been lifted from the inn’s stores for ‘medicinal’ uses. He half-rose from his seat to look past d’Artagnan’s shoulder, evaluating the scene.

With a reassuring smile, he sat back down and lifted his glass as a salute in Aramis’ direction. “Not to worry, young one,” he reported confidently. “I think you could certainly say Aramis has the _matter_ well in hand.”

“Yes, yes! OW! I can FEEL he has the ‘matter in hand’, damn you, but what _mischief_ \- OW! OW! - is he up to?” d’Artagnan snarled, twisting to attempt to see over his own shoulder in order to check on the progress of the surgery.

The sudden movement caused Aramis to growl in exasperation, “Would you kindly turn around and STOP moving, d’Artagnan? If you keep fidgeting, you’ll end up with your backside stitched to a bar rag, and I will bear no responsibility for that!”

Porthos was less deferential. d’Artagnan felt a slap on his bare buttocks that made the sting of Aramis’ stitching seem less extreme by comparison. His brown eyes went wide in shock and surprise, and he held his breath, frozen by the admonitions from the two behind him.

Athos leaned in to gently pat the young man’s head in a sort of conciliatory gesture.

“Perhaps you should just consider this event as one more heroic story for you to tell. Additionally, it appears you will have a beautifully crafted scar - compliments of Aramis’ artistry - to show off to admirers. After a few drinks, I suppose.”

“C-crafted? A _crafted_ scar? What in God’s name is he doing back there?”

“He’s stitched his name on yer ass,” Porthos said with no small amount of admiration.

Or so it seemed to d’Atagnan.

“Wha...!”

d’Artagnan once again started to push himself off the table, but Aramis firmly pressed him back down.

“Don’t believe Porthos’ lies, _mon cher_,” he huffed as he set to stitching the wound again. “I wouldn’t put my name on your ass, boy.” 

As soon as d’Artagnan relaxed a bit, however, he paused in his stitching to mischievously add, “It’s Athos’ name. At his insistence.”

When d’Artagnan yelped and tried to raise his head to look over his shoulder at Aramis’ handiwork, Athos placed a calming hand on his head again. 

“Stop the absurdity, brothers!” the older musketeer scolded the other two.“As for you, d’Artagnan, calm yourself,” he drawled. “Such is Aramis’ skill that he was able to neatly replicate the family crest.”

d’Artagnan was bug-eyed with horror. “Your family crest!” he gasped.

The gleeful glances exchanged over his sore, exposed backside did not escape d’Artagnan’s notice.

“Oh no,” Athos assured him. “Not my family crest. De Treville’s.”

~~~~~*~~~~~*~~~~~*~~~~~*~~~~~


	5. In Every Season - Summer

**Summer**

d’Artagnan’s arrival at the Ruddy Duck Inn was causing a stir.

Intrigued by the commotion at such an early hour, Athos puffed on his long meerschaum pipe and watched silently from his corner in the favored booth by the fireplace. Nearby, Porthos was preoccupied with perfecting some dazzling sleight-of-hand with a new deck of cards.

Also intrigued by the commotion, but in a less contemplative manner, was Monsieur Pépin - the inn’s owner. He watched sourly from his station at the bar as the young handsome musketeer flitted from table to table amongst his crowd of early-morning musketeer customers.

This Parisian summer day was already proving itself warmer than usual, so Athos was hard-pressed to determine whether the sweat welling up on the portly little innkeeper’s brow was from the heat or from irritation.

Given the man was forever in a state of irritation, Athos reasoned it must be the heat.

However, as d’Artagnan was clearly encouraging customers from their seats and out the open door, Athos reckoned Pépin’s apparent annoyance may just as likely have had their beloved younger brother as its cause.

“Where’s everyone going?” Porthos asked as he looked up from thedeck of cards sprawled before him on the table he and Athos had commandeered moments before d’Artagnan’s breathless arrival.

“The garrison! To help!” d’Artagnan finally arrived at their table. He was informally dressed in light linens against the summer heat and flushed with excitement.

“Oh?” Athos straightened from his brooding slouch and set aside his pipe. He was immediately suspicious. He and Porthos had left Aramis at the garrison just about a half hour ago, supposing the man to be busy with burdensome chores that would take him days to complete.

Or so Athos had hoped.

It was summer after all, and Aramis had just successfully accomplished his (seemingly requisite) singular act of outrage which always required the requisite response in some form of penance.

It was Athos’ unfortunate task as Captain Treville’s lieutenant to be the long-suffering instrument of that penance every damn time the man called something down upon his lovely head.

This morning, Athos had walked away from the garrison, secure in the conviction that he burdened Aramis with so many punitive undertakings that the man could not claim idleness as an excuse for any self-activated wickedness until summer’s end.

Now - suddenly - there was some inexplicably fresh excitement that their gullible younger brother was rallying other musketeers to at the garrison?

“Help with what, may I ask?” Athos inquired, his voice strained with suspicions he had come to expect in all matters that may even carry a whiff of Aramis’ involvement.

d’Artagnan’s innocent comely face was glowing with youthful excitement. “Whitewashing! Fresh plastering in the infirmary! Repairs to the training yard! Re-grading of the grounds! By God, how is it that you two - of all people - haven’t heard? Aramis said...”

There it was. Aramis’ name had been invoked. Athos and Porthos exchanged looks.

“...there are promises of fresh baked goods and meat pies with plums and brandy - and cakes! And ale! Fit for the King himself! It will be at the garrison for us all this evening if all the work is completed today,” d’Artagnan burbled on with enthusiasm.

The young man’s excitement was certainly infectious. Other young recruits and seasoned musketeers were already moving out the door - much to the exasperation of the inn keeper of the Ruddy Duck. Monsieur Pépin watched with open-mouthed horror as his establishment was emptied of customers. Paying customers.

d’Artagnan briefly thought to apologize to the man, but thought the better of it, running out the door after the others.

“The boy has a point, Athos: How is it that we two have not heard of this magnificent portable feast tonight? It cannot be a coincidence that he shows up here mere minutes after we left Aramis at the garrison. Should I stop the boy from falling victim to the unreliable predictions of our Prophet Aramis?”

“Aramis - a prophet! Phfftt! Unfortunately though, brother, that so-called prophecy by Aramis is true.”

Porthos turned to Athos for a better explanation. When the weary swordsman just shook his head in a gesture of exasperation and took up his pipe again, the bigger musketeer started to laugh. “Well, prophet or no, Aramis now has successfully gathered a help force! Within minutes of your departure from the scene of his humbling before you.”

“I know, I know,” Athos groaned. “He has outfoxed me again. It’s my own fault. I should have been a bit more aware when I handed him that list of tasks as his punishment for the ‘skinny-dipping’ incident with the cardinal’s sister-in-law on solstice eve. I thought the sheer nature and number of tasks would keep him out of trouble for at least two weeks - or at least until some of the cardinal’s libidinous family members were returned to Rome. Hercules, himself, was never busier with the like of tasks I gave to Aramis!”

“Perhaps Captain Treville is punishing _you_ by tasking ya with the care and correction of our brother Aramis.” Porthos did not spare Athos’ feelings; he laughed merrily at his brother’s misery. “How did he arrange for tonight’s rewards, then? I’ll eat my hat if ya tell me he prayed this into existence like loaves and fishes.”

“I am beginning to believe that Aramis does not need to ask God for anything. God set him upon this earth, patted him on his pretty ass and sent him forth, giving our brother the certain belief that everything in this world would bend to his will and charms.”

Porthos pulled a face considering how that might be true.

“I am forced to confess to you that I did know about this feast. From Captain Treville. It was supposed to be a surprise...” Athos continued. “So, as for Aramis’ prescient promises of rewards for work done: that scamp surely knew - even this morning while he fixed his big, ever-so-contrite, brown eyes on my own as I doled out his punishments - that the palace would be sending those special goods today as part of King Louis’ gesture of gratitude for the recent show of force by our regiment in putting down that minor insurrection in the north end of Paris last month.”

“But how could Aramis...?”

“Do you seriously have to ask, Porthos? Aramis enjoys the favor of our beloved garrison care-taker, Serge. “

“Ah. Of course. A most reliable treasure trove of information - and he loves our brother like a hen loves her downy chick!”

Athos took a long, pensive draw on his pipe and softly breathed out a cloud of fragrant tobacco smoke. “Well, no harm, no foul. The surprise will not be enjoyed less for the spoiling of it by our brother’s trick. And...”

He sighed with a measure of resignation as he leaned toward the fireplace and knocked ash free from his pipe onto the hearthstone. “...the garrison will be shining like a new polished jewel when Treville arrives ahead of the food and festivities this evening.”

“There’s that,” Porthos agreed.

“I must be honest, brother: These seasonal disciplinary challenges from Aramis are actually becoming entertaining. I have begun to regard them as some sort of chess game between us. He has successfully turned the board to his advantage today. I will have to concede this one - in the interest of garrison peace.”

“And garrison maintenance,” Porthos added amiably.

Athos sighed and waved dismissively after last musketeer that had disappeared from the inn. “As for our unsuspecting young brother d’Artagnan, not yet schooled in all of Aramis’ lovable trickery, he will learn the lessons of Aramis and his angelic charms and devilish wiles as we all have.”

“It’s no secret I find his charms and wiles adorable - though those same traits sometimes test you like a biblical Job,” Porthos grunted. “Well, if you enjoy this game with him so much, when can I expect the next match?”

“Not until autumn, if my reasoning is correct.”

“Reasoning? How does one use reasoning with Aramis?”

“Oh no! There is no reasoning _with_ our handsome demon-brother, of course. Not even God has deigned to do that. No, my brother, I have reasoned _about_ Aramis that these insurrections of his are cyclical.”

“What! Cyclical? How so?”

“Observing Aramis’ bad-boy behavior is like observing the sun, the moon, the stars, the seasons. He seems driven to offer a single challenge to authority every season, some deviltry objectionable enough to draw attention and then punishment. Summer, Autumn, Winter and - God help us - Spring. I think it is some alien malformation of the humours* that rule him.”

“I could almost accept that theory, Athos, if I could just bring myself to believe there is_ anything_ that could rule Aramis.”

“Good point, brother. In any case, it’s summer in Paris in peacetime. Short of finding a convenient warfront to send the man to as a distraction, I will have rack my brains for other entertainments to keep our brother diverted from his usual rounds of seasonal mischief. It is a strategy of his game to thwart my every plan for him while Treville looks to me to bring him to heel. Despite my complaints about it and him, this has become a challenge I have come to look forward to - like playing chess with a master.”

Porthos laughed as he rose and clapped his brother-in-arms affectionately on one shoulder. “I wouldn’t overthink it, if I were you, Athos. There are much easier ways t’ tame Aramis’ inner beasts, believe me.”

“Such as...?” Athos looked up, intrigued.

Porthos winked and headed for the door. “Come skinny-dippin’ with him an’ me to find out! Tonight! After the feast! It’ll settle yer ‘humours’. Or if yer lucky, it’ll disturb ‘em!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Theory of HUMOURS: Humoral theory, also known as humorism or the theory of the four humours, was a model for the workings of the human body. In this ancient (hilarious) theory, humours existed as liquids within the body and were identified as blood, phlegm, black bile and yellow bile. This theory may still exist today in the minds of people who also believe Earth is flat and that the space shuttle is actually a giant balloon. While there is no excuse for those 21st century types, Athos can be forgiven here for being a creature of his century, which unfortunately bears the moniker “The Enlightenment”. Humans.


	6. Autumn: The Sin of Sisyphus; The Promise of Prometheus

Business at the Ruddy Duck Inn was brisk when Porthos and d’Artagnan stepped in looking for Athos. Their comrade had already claimed the coveted spot by the large fireplace and was already well into relaxing from his trying morning attending to office duties at the garrison.

“We just left the garrison. Aramis is arduously bent to the task you set on him. Is this leaf-gathering task the punishment he actually accepted from you for his most unfortunate misstep last week in that little town we just returned from?”

“ ‘Accepted’ is such an inadequate description for his peculiar submission to the penalty I handed him this morning,” Athos responded as his two comrades seated themselves at the table. “And your term ‘unfortunate misstep’ is also hilariously inadequate.”

He eyed each of his friends in turn, suspiciously. “You haven’t attempted to assist him in that chore, have you?”

d’Artagnan laid his hand over his heart while affecting a doe-eyed look of alarm. “We would never dare to get between you and Aramis in this seasonal ritual you two seem to have fallen into. He steps out of line; you find creative ways to remind him where the line is.”

“It’s become our greatest entertainment, brother!” Porthos laughed as he helped himself to the platter of bread, cheeses and meat that sat untouched beside Athos’ half-finished wine bottle.“However, mon cher, I would have thought that you would have let him know, after all facts were made known in that nasty mission that the Cardinal sent him, me and d’Artagnan away on last week, that the ‘unfortunate misstep” was not _his_ to own and make amends for?”

“That ‘misstep’ - as you persist in calling it - had Aramis crossing swords with a local _governor_ and evicting two priests - per your own report to Treville!”

“Yes! And it was a glorious sight to see, Athos!” d’Artagnan interjected excitedly. “Aramis’challenge to that governor and those corrupted priests brought to mind the story of Jesus driving the money-changers from the Temple!”

Athos raised his eyebrows. “Well, correct me if I’m wrong - but Jesus had the advantage of _not_ having to check in with Cardinal Richelieu before running clergy out of town.”

Porthos was quick to interject, “Clergy and a governor whose cruelty and corruption, let it be said, was hated by the entirety of the town’s citizens!”

“And the resulting closure of two churches?” Athos casually inquired.

“Hey! One was Protestant! That shoulda been points in Aramis’ favor!” Porthos barked. “We had nothin’ to do with that - but our victory over that corrupt governor freed people up to reconsider their heavenly loyalties as well as strengthening their loyalties to the crown when the King’s Musketeers showed up to route the problems from office.”

At that declaration, Athos paused long enough to cast him a weathered eye.

“Well,” the big man amended with a grin. “I may have exaggerated that bit, but our brother did seem to inspire a number of the lady-Protestants to convert.”

d’Artagnan immediately dropped his head into his folded arms on the table to muffle a giggle.

“Perfect,” Athos muttered. “So now he’s the Secret Weapon of Mother Church, too? I’m certain the Pope himself will believe _heavenly inspiration_ is precisely what Aramis provoked in the breasts of those adoring new converts. It only remains for our charismatic brother to be canonized, hmm? Isn’t there something in canon law advising against the adoration of false idols?”

Porthos leaned back with a devilish grin. Athos was beginning to wonder if he should be wary of these two.

“I don’t know whether to be grateful or regret that I wasn’t sent on that little mission for the cardinal with you. In any case, all’s well that ends well,” he sighed. He shook his head, wearily looking into his half-empty glass. “Even after you three had left that tattered township, and the cardinal had to act quickly to send a diplomatic corps to calm the proverbial disturbed waters - both ecclesiastical and civic - Richelieu’s proverbial _panties_ were in their perpetual _twist_. We only get to imagine his displeasure; Treville had to hear it! The disgraced governor and priests were howling for Aramis’ head...”

He glanced over at his two companions. “Curious how little of your involvement came up.”

Porthos and d’Artagnan exchanged guilty glances, yet did little to hide their triumphant smiles. “Well, if Aramis didn’t have such a ‘savior complex’ and an uncanny ability to draw all the fire...” d’Artagnan exclaimed.

“And attention,” Porthos added with a knowing nod.

“Right,” the younger musketeer agreed defensively. “We capably made plenty of complaint-worthy...”

Porthos stopped his unwise confession short with a quick lift of his chin and a cautionary glower.

Athos did not miss the exchange. He rolled his eyes and took another long, fortifying drink from his wine glass.

“Fortunately, my subsequent investigation of the incidents clearly exonerated Aramis - and by association - you two. Technically, that meant that Aramis actually did not _need_ any punishments to be meted out this morning despite the _ex_-governor’s complaints against him.”

“Then why is he chasing dead leaves in the garrison’s formal courtyard, muttering penance prayers to the heavens?”

Athos shrugged and did not bother to hide a smirk that seemed a bit puckish.

“Well... I was quite ready to let the matter drop if he hadn’t burst into the office this morning declaring to have had a ‘crisis of conscience’, I believe he called it, and declared he was giving up all arguments regarding my proposed punishment regarding raking leaves in the formal courtyard of the garrison.”

This time, Athos did miss the amused exchange of glances between his two companions.

“So...?” Porthos prompted.

“Truth be told, his hasty capitulation gave me pause. When he darted out of the room, I almost set out to follow him -to correct the error, but then I became a bit suspicious that he might have taken on the punishment as penance for some yet-undiscovered mischief of his making. So, instead, I simply gave in to the allure of this little ‘chess game’ these recurring disciplinary tussles have become between us.”

“A game of chess!” d’Artagnan said with delight. “So then! Should I assume that Aramis’ punishment for the day is considered a Knight’s move?”

“Precisely! Knight takes Knight! A highly unusual gambit, little brother.”

“It’s highly unusual because it is a move with little success to recommend it to the wise player,” Porthos said, his voice low with warning.

Athos lifted his wine glass to his comrade in acknowledgement.

“True. However, today, I have Mother Nature on my side. It’s autumn - the season of errant winds! Winds which are expected to bedevil Aramis’ task all day long. For every two piles of leaves gathered, he will have to scramble to recover three blown away in his wake.”

He paused to refill his wine glass, seeming quite content with his decision. “I told him if he thought to outsmart me with this sudden submission to me, I would happily play Zeus to his trickster Sisyphus* and those leaves were to be his Sisyphean Task.* I expect that Aramis will be so tired from his labors today that the only bed he will take to will be his own. Alone. There will be peace in Paris tonight! I believe that means I win this match. ”

“I think I remember that tale. Wasn’t Sisyphus’ sin daring to match wits with the god Zeus?”d’Artagnan spoke up in an assumed fog of innocence.** “**When we spoke to Aramis earlier, though, he seemed overly amused by your description of him as Sisyphus.”

Athos’ eyes narrowed, and he lowered his wine glass.

Porthos simply grinned and leaned over the table to address his older comrade more intimately. There was no time to address the sudden blossoming of d’Artagnan’s confusion when Athos’ blossoming realizations needed to be addressed. 

“I hate to take the taste of victory from you, brother, but Aramis sent me with a message for you. He said to tell you he is more suitably the _Prometheus*_ in this harsh chastisement.”

“‘Harsh’!” Athos sputtered, “Is that the word he used? This, from the man who has scaled battlements like a deranged monkey, run headlong over impossible distances to chase opponents terrorized by his mania, knelt for countless interminable hours listening to the dull sermons of even-duller priests - and just lately - created a cult of women converts in a town not far from here! No. This penalty is not harsh to him; it is a mere aggravation to him. As for it being as harsh a punishment as that of Prometheus... Please.” 

He rolled his eyes again, even though he could feel his confidence waning. Which prompted Porthos to lean in closer.

“Ya know what ya should remember ‘bout that Prometheus guy, though, Athos?”

Athos attempted another nonchalant shrug, raising his feet up to the nearby hearthstone, trying to project the image of a man enjoying the warmth and comfort - _not_ a man whose mind was suddenly beset with all sorts of images of a brother-in-arms who would be quite adept at creating all sorts of Promethean chaos.

“If our Aramis is Prometheus,” he grumbled into his wine glass, “his liver probably tastes like bon-bons and rose petals, and if his tormenting eagle should happen to be female, it is likely she would carry him off to coddle in her nest.”

“Uh-huh, but do ya forget Prometheus’ crime?” Porthos continued, then waited. When there was no reaction from his companion, he smiled and said, “He gave fire t’ mankind, di’n’t he? Such a useful gift! Consider the promise of Prometheus, brother, not the sin of Sisyphus. Prometheus outwitted Zeus, in spite of the punishment.”

Athos blinked and looked up at Porthos, blue eyes widening.

d’Artagnan attempted to look puzzled. “What in the hell are you two going on about? You lost me at liver bon-bons and eagles.”

“How could you have ever pictured Aramis as Sisyphus?” Porthos was chortling by now.“How many times do you think Aramis woulda rolled tha’ boulder up a hill on orders from some ol’ tight-ass like Zeus before he’da figured some way t’ hammer that rock into a million harmless pebbles?”

Aghast, Athos paused to consider this new perspective. _Sisyphus and orders from Zeus. Aramis and orders from... anyone_. _Two very different approaches to the judgements of authority._

Porthos was right. Not Sisyphus and his sin, but Prometheus and his gift.

Aramis-as-Prometheus was going to make damn sure the courtyard was clear of all the travails the autumn season would challenge him with today. He would make sure his hellish task was efficiently executed with a vengeance.

“He wouldn’t.” Athos’ eyebrows lowered into a dark stormy line settled over icy blue eyes.

“Wouldn’t he?” Porthos’ eyebrows arched and waggled over a pair of dark brown eyes alight with glee.

Athos started from his seat on the bench like cannon-shot.

“Treville will birth _kittens-and-cows_ where he stands if he sees Aramis’ Promethean bonfires of leaves in the formal courtyard!” Porthos called after him.

With his hat barely properly affixed to his head and his weapons belt jangling in his grip like alarm bells, the beleaguered lieutenant of the King’s Royal Musketeer Guard was out the door in an instant.

_“_Well, that set him off!_” _gasped d’Artagnan, not knowing whether to be astounded by the speed of his brother’s departure or by the fact that the musketeer had abandoned a half-empty cup and an unfinished bottle of wine.

“I think he just remembered a knight’s move on his chess board that he failed to anticipate,” Porthos said with a smug grin as he reached for Athos’ abandoned drink and finished it in a gulp. “He’s been check-mated. Again.”

In answer to d’Artagnan’s look, he clasped the young man’s shoulder companionably and said “Sisyphus was given a deserved punishment for his trickery. Prometheus was also given a punishment, sorta like Aramis got for his challenge to that bastard governor, but was it just? Aramis brought down the figurehead of corruption in that little town that we all helped to clean up. Prometheus also took on an injustice and we got...?”

“Fire,” d’Artagnan smiled, pouring some of Athos’ wine into the abandoned glass and claiming it for himself. “The myth claims he gave mankind fire.”

“Yes. Fire. So many uses... An efficient tool for eliminating dead leaves, eh?” He pulled Athos’ platter of unfinished food between them to share.

With a mighty belch, he added, “I tried t’ tell ‘im! Aramis would never be Sisyphus! I wonder that Athos hasn’t realized yet that no matter what punishment he doles out, our brother Aramis has it his own way.” 

Moments later, the two musketeers tossed some coins on the table with a nod to the Ruddy Duck’s ever-watchful innkeeper, Monsieur Pépin.

Grabbing the remains of Athos’ bottle of wine, Porthos rose to his feet and proclaimed merrily, “Game on! C’mon, boy! Let’s go watch some sparks fly ‘round the garrison.”

“Do you think Aramis will ever tell Athos this was all planned well in advance?” d’Artagnan asked as they exited into the noisy boulevard, the nip of autumn air sharp against their faces.

“Nah!” Porthos replied, pulling up his collar against the cold. “Where’d the fun be in that? Besides, there’s always next season’s mischief to plan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The Sisyphean task: This term for a task that is endless and ineffective comes straight out of Greek myth. In Greek legend, King Sisyphus was punished in Hades for his misdeeds in life, i.e., challenging the Uber-God Zeus to a game of wits and tricking Him. As a punishment for his trickery, Zeus made Sisyphus roll a huge boulder endlessly up a steep hill. The maddening nature of the punishment was reserved for King Sisyphus due to his hubristic belief that his cleverness surpassed that of Zeus himself. And once he got that stone to the top? You guessed it - it rolled back down again.  
Worst. Do-Over. Ever.  
*Prometheus the Titan: (NOT to be confused, as he often is, with Sisyphus’ myth) What does it mean to be Promethean? The definition of Promethean is acting like Prometheus (Duh! ‘Plagiarizing’ answers from the internet doth make me feel like I am losing brain cells), a Titan in Greek mythology, by being creative and original. An example of someone Promethean is a person who always rebels against just doing what everyone else is doing.  
Huh. Now *who*, exactly, does that seem like?  
Prometheus’ myth gets a bit ‘stickier’, i.e., the liver and eagle thing. Zeus was outraged by Prometheus' theft of fire and so punished the Titan by having him taken far to the east, perhaps the Caucasus (as being sent to Arizona in mid-July had not yet been conceived as Hell on Earth). Here Prometheus was chained to a rock (or pillar) and Zeus sent an eagle to eat the Titan's liver.  
Geez. Gods, eh?  
Zeus was the king of the Greek gods who lived on Mount Olympus. He was the (apparently uptight) god of the sky and THUNDER, making it almost de rigueur to respond to him thusly: _“OK, Boomer.”_


	7. In Which All That Glitters Is... Aramis? (Part One)

In Which" All That Glitters Is..." Aramis? (Part One) 

~~~~~***~~~~~***~~~~~

Athos shook the wine bottle at the edge of the table he was sharing with his three beloved companions.

Empty.

How had he allowed that to happen? More importantly, how had Monsieur Pépin, the owner of this pleasant little inn, allowed this to happen? Determined not to give into his moodiness tonight, Athos idly calculated how many bottles of wine it would take to guide him successfully through this new card game Porthos was trying to impose upon their little company this evening.

Next to him, stern-faced and impatient, sat Porthos - the instigator of this annoying game he had called _Juckerspiel* _\- an irritating invention of some spiteful Alsatian types who probably schemed to unleash this tedious entertainment on the known world in order to unbalance the ever-unsteady peace therein.

Such was the opinion of Athos de la Fere at the moment.

He was bored beyond belief, not the least because he had held successively less impressive playing hands with each deal, while his designated game partner - Aramis - smiled and hummed and flirted openly with every passerby, female and male, as if the cards he held each time needed no further attention or study merely because it was he who had possession of them.

Porthos had his own difficulties with his partner in the game. He was teamed with their youngest comrade, d’Artagnan, whom Porthos had tried unsuccessfully to train in the art of card play. The boy was sitting directly across from Athos and fidgeting with anxiety over making just the right choice of play for his teammate who was fixing him with a singularly intense stare.

This is going to take a while, Athos mused.

Bored as he was while waiting for the non-verbal squabble to resolve itself between the two partners, Athos allowed his attention to wander to the front of the Ruddy Duck Inn when the door swung open and was filled with the immense bulk of a man who moved with what seemed like murderous intent.

Always alert for trouble, their rotund little innkeeper, Monsieur Pépin, moved fearlessly toward the giant and immediately engaged the man with a grumpy litany of do’s-and-don’t’s for anyone entering his establishment.

Already worn to tedium with his disappointing hand of cards, Athos switched his attention to the drama at the door with interest, grateful for the promise of some excitement.

The angry man, who easily towered over Monsieur Pépin, swept the still-squawking innkeeper to the side as if brushing aside a stand of dried reeds. Athos watched as the man made his way from table to table, his gruff angry inquiries unintelligible from this distance.

There was no mistaking the message in his demeanor, though. The classic cuckold. A man who had discovered a lover’s infidelities and now he was a man in search of a face to punch, a throat to throttle, a fight to win. On behalf of his own wounded pride.

Now who in the world might this fellow be looking for?

Athos threw a glance at his card partner, sitting blissfully unaware, humming softly to himself as he plucked at and rearranged the cards in his hand while waiting for d’Artagnan to get over his fear of Porthos and The Wrong Move. In the golden glow of firelight from the nearby hearth, Aramis was as radiantly innocent-looking as a Raphaelite angel, as unconscious of his beauty as he was of the danger moving behind them, directed toward their table.

Athos narrowed his eyes as the man approached, wondering if there might be a way to protect his continuously amorous and problematic brother-in-arms and yet retain the promise of an evening’s entertainment.

Slowly, he moved to press his boot firmly over one of Aramis’ own boots.

Startled, Aramis’s eyes dropped beneath the table and then looked up in puzzlement at his blue-eyed friend.

Pretending to renew his interest in his cards despite the approach of a gathering storm, Athos said in a low and commanding voice, “Aramis. _Mon cher._ Do not get up. Do not speak unless spoken to. Do not engage. And do NOT call attention to yourself. Do you understand?”

“No. _Mon Cher_. I do not understand.” Aramis responded with a prim and tense mimic of Athos’ tone. 

Despite his initial resentment at being told to stay still as if he were a toddler, he did obey and did not look up from his hand of playing cards. Behind him, the marksman was now aware of the steadily growing mayhem. “You may as well be speaking to me in another of the dead languages you have mastered so well.” He huffed and delicately played a single card as the clamor behind him became a bit louder. A bit closer. “When have you ever known me to have a need to call attention to myself?” he continued to grouse.

“He makes a fair point, Athos,” Porthos chortled even as he, too, noticed the angry fellow headed their way. Placidly playing a card of his own in turn, he added, “It’s kind of a naturally occurring phenomena with him.” He had to lift his own voice a bit as the roar of a powerfully-built giant of a man began to overtake the usual noise of the public room.

Seated across from Aramis and d’Artagnan, Porthos and Athos had a clear view of the chaos to come. Porthos had already pulled his pistol to his side and had let one hand fall below the level of the table top to rest on the weapon.

The disruption that had begun at the entrance to the Ruddy Duck Inn was moving closer, and while it seemed not to alarm the three older Inseparables, d’Artagnan, the youngest musketeer, looked over his shoulder and began watching the escalating action moving toward them with a mix of eagerness and anxiety.

The man lumbered toward them even as poor Pépin tried desperately to run interference, threatening and then pleading for the man to leave in peace.

“Not before I find the ne'er-do-well what bedded my wife!” the man roared, sweeping Pépin away for the final time as he drew up to the table of the four musketeers. The noise in the pub sank to murmurs and whispers and the occasional clink of coin as bets were laid on the outcome of the drama that was about to unfold.

Pépin just threw up his hands, made the sign of the cross over himself and hurried to remove as many breakable items from the tables of his patrons as possible.

“See here, my good man,” Athos said in the perfectly reasoned tone of voice of the generations of nobility bred into him. “If you would, please settle yourself a bit and let our poor little innkeeper go back to his business in peace. Perhaps we could help you? Your approach has failed to tell us anything about this dastardly fellow you seek. Does he, at the very least, have a name you could bellow at us?”

“Several people in the streets have suggested the bed-swerving bastard’s name is Aramis!” the big man snapped.

On cue, Porthos jerked his head to the side in a quizzical manner. “Ara-what? Aramis, you say?” He shrugged. “Hmmmm... Not sure. Isn’t he that short, squirrelly guy what’s always messin’ up our weaponry at the garrison?”

Porthos had directed the question directly at the supposed musketeer in question, a sweet smile masquerading the playful insult to the marksman’s notoriously fastidious care of the garrison weapons.

Aramis’ lips thinned and the glare he set upon Porthos from under his lashes seemed as if it could sear flesh. When the marksman’s ears began to tinge pink with annoyance, Porthos was near giddy with glee.

“He’ll be easy enough to find,” the giant was snarling. “The stink o’ him is all over my marriage bed. Smells as sweet as a king’s whore.” He leaned between d’Artagnan and Aramis, then bent over Aramis’ shoulder and took in a deep, noisy breath. “Like you, eh, fancy boy?”

Aramis was beginning to squirm with impatience. Over his handful of cards, Athos sent him an magisterial look of warning and increased the pressure of his boot on Aramis’ foot.

It was Porthos’ deceptively playful response, pitched in his deep baritone, that gave the brute pause. “Ya appreciate my brother’s fragrance, do ya? If the cur yer lookin’ for wears that scent, though, y’ll be fightin’ most o’ the musketeer garrison. It’s a favorite among all o’ King Louis’ Guards. As for the cologne on that handsome devil y’re leanin’ a bit too close into, it belongs to me. The sneaky bastard is always gettin’ into my stuff. Never asks with a ‘please’. Never leaves with a ‘thank you’.”

He gave Aramis another self-satisfied smile as he watched his muted friend’s ears grow redder.

The angry hulk behind Aramis eased his attention away from his target slowly and focused his glare of suspicion on Porthos. As he straightened, he made sure to jostle the quiet soldier with a small, threatening shove.

When the musketeer tightened his jaw, Athos increased the pressure on his instep in response. Giving in to his comrade’s warning once again, Aramis resentfully returned to the pretense of concentration on the card game before them, saying nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
*Juckerspiel, (pronounced yooker-shpeel) also known as Jucker or Juckern, is a card game that was formerly popular in the Alsace region. It is purported to be the ancestor of Euchre (!!) and to have given its name to the playing card known as the Joker. :-) No definitive rules are known, so just as I play with the rules of historical timelines, so do my characters play with the unknown rules of this game. The game wasn’t formalized in print until somewhere in the 1800’s (making Porthos way before his time in this fiction!) See what I mean about timelines and rules? Phhhttt!


	8. In Which “All That Glitters Is...” Aramis? (Part Two)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (***Continuation of Chapter Seven***)

When Porthos and the angry stranger locked eyes, another feverish jangle of coin erupted between some of the Ruddy Duck's Inn's regular customers. Bets were being doubled.

Athos stroked his fingers slowly along the underside of his bearded chin as he considered what to do next. This naive fellow glowering at Porthos had made a number of mistakes such as threatening Aramis, threatening Aramis in front of Porthos, and most egregious of all, threatening the big musketeer himself.

This idiot may very well need to be rescued before Porthos breaks him.

“Oh very well,” Athos groaned as if exasperated. He made a sudden show of craning his head to look about the room while snapping his fingers at the stranger and breaking his focus on Porthos. “Perhaps we can help you with your search for this Aramis scoundrel.”

He set his cards down with a great sigh of manufactured vexation. Ignoring Aramis’ round-eyed glare and tightening jaw, he swung about in his seat and went through the motions of dramatically scanning the crowded room.

“Let’s see... Aramis. Aramis.” Athos said, tapping his chin, eyes flitting from table to table, filled with the amused faces of other musketeers from the garrison. “He should be easy enough to ‘spot’, if you would forgive the use of the term. You see, he has a rather large red carbuncle on the end of his nose. Can’t miss it.”

“Right! As if his nose needed to be any larger,” d’Artagnan added wickedly from behind the handful of cards he had pressed into double-duty as a shield to hide his grin.

In the youngest musketeer’s own estimation, he had been silent too long. He was delighted with this new turn of play with their handsome rogue of a brother as its object. Too often, he - as youngest - was the target of these jests. Turn-about was indeed fair play, and he intended to enjoy this one.

Aramis turned his big-eyed stare on him, but it did little to discourage him.

In fact, Aramis’ obvious, escalating irritation did little to discourage any of them.

“There is also that rather distinctive cast eye of his!” Porthos gave a great bear-like shake of his head, feigning wonderment, as he pretended to concentrate on the hand of cards he held. “Ya can never tell who he’s lookin’ at! Odd little bugger, that one.”

d’Artagnan was warming to his part in this sport. “He has that rather prominent wen right in the middle of his forehead as well! A most unfortunate feature. The King himself asked the man to wear a bag over his head whenever - ” d’Artagnan began pantomiming the proper placement of an imaginary bag over his head. “ - he’s in the royal presence.” All spoken while defiantly, and with great amusement, looking directly at Aramis with a triumphant smile as the man’s face colored a deeper scarlet with agitation.

It was no use. The dam of Aramis’ tolerance was now broken.

“Nonsense!” the subject of their tease barked with such a sudden vehemence that even the hot-tempered colossus near them stepped back a bit.

Immediately composing himself with a fussy tug at the lace collar of his shirt and a run of fingers through his hair that tossed his famous mane of curls in a move that might have been considered provocatively seductive in any circumstance other than the one they found themselves in, he proudly asserted, “I have it on good authority that the man is quite extraordinarily handsome!”

The unwelcome visitor narrowed his eyes at Aramis again, so Athos took the opportunity to distract him - again. He shook his head while playing one of his cards onto the table, and sighed gustily, “_That _description is a bit wide of the mark, don’t you think, gentlemen?” 

Around their little table, there were murmured agreements from all save the man in question, who sat dumbfounded, looking at each of his companions in turn, all of whom seemed to be studying their cards with renewed interest. Whatever game they were now playing, it certainly wasn’t _Juckerspiel._ The cards being tossed to the center of the table followed no known rules, Alsatian or otherwise_._

The big man beside Aramis was beginning regard each of them with deepening suspicion.

With heartfelt injury to his pride, Aramis continued his imprudent proclamations: “Aramis is a fine example of King Louis’ elite cadre of soldiers! I have heard he is remarkably good with a musket. One might even say... _professional!_”

Athos leveled a look of contrived surprise at his agitated brother-in-arms and responded with a cool air of indifference, “You don’t say! Ah well, you can’t always believe what you hear on the streets. But be that as it may, I think the rather largish fellow looming over your shoulder is less interested in this rascal Aramis’ skills on the battlefield than his skills in the bedroom.”

The big man growled as if on cue, his knuckles cracking and popping every time he clenched and unclenched his fists, causing Aramis to instinctively make a slight, uncomfortable shift away from him.

“I also heard the prissy little bastard is a bit of a high-toned dresser,” the angry man snapped as he fingered the fine lace that fell gracefully from where Aramis’ leather doublet lay open, exposing a number of finely crafted gold necklaces draped over a dark spray of fine chest hair.

Porthos, Athos and d’Artagnan each exchanged a look between them and burst into laughter while Aramis chose to silently glower. d’Artagnan chortled “High-toned? The fellow you’re looking for belts his trousers up around his nipples!”

Aramis slapped the intruder’s hand away from his chest and glared, but d’Artagnan blathered on merrily, “Everything on him is either two sizes too small or two sizes too big. His mode of dress is more akin to a medieval court jester.”

“Now, now. Be fair, brothers,” Athos intoned, seemingly intent on re-arranging his hand of cards. “He does have those lovely, fashionable high-rise boots.”

“Where he keeps all manner of food and things he plucks off the streets!” Porthos barked.

Aramis tossed his cards down. While the casual observer might have mistaken this gesture as a fit of pique over a bad hand, the more seasoned Aramis-observers at the table recognized that the force with which he threw them and the stormy frown that had settled over his fine-sculpted brow hinted at his growing displeasure with this entertaining sport of _hide-Aramis-in-sight_.

The three others, still engaged in the gambit, grinned at each other.

Spurred on by the unrelenting tease, Aramis cleared his throat loudly and spoke up with a far-too-transparent defensiveness in his voice. “See here! If the man this poor fellow is looking for is such a legend with the ladies, surely he has some _other_ qualities by which this gentleman may recognize him!”

“Nay,” the man huffed. “Sounds like these fellas got the right idea ‘bout him. He’s got to be a right idiot to think he can mess around with my woman. My friends tell me he’s from the garrison nearby. A clown like him should be easy enough to find. I’ll head there next.”

“He’s a bit of a simpleton with horses,” Porthos called after him, as if offering yet another helpful guide in the man’s search. He ignored Aramis as he turned a disbelieving glare slowly toward him. “Ya might find him at the stables tryin’ to convince some ol’ swayback horse to allow him a leg up?”

“If that’s where I’ll find him, then fine!” the cuckold roared. “He’d better have his steel with him. I intend to challenge him to a duel.”

Aramis watched as the man turned toward the door. Despite the battering to his pride and the urge to drop the rat-faced, dull-as-a-rock, piggish miscreant brute where he had stood, he had to admit to a bit of relief in seeing him move away from them.

Until…

“Oh. Well.” Athos spoke up in his most reasonable tone, as he laid out a comically nonsensical play of otherwise strategic cards as if nothing else had been happening around them. “That would be a bit unmerciful toward that Aramis fellow, wouldn’t it? Thrashing a man as helplessly incompetent at dueling as him? The man is a disaster with a weapon in his hand. He spends more time in the infirmary with self-inflicted wounds than he does in the training yards. Take pity, won’t you?”

“Pity!” The man swung back around.

Aramis watched in astonishment as the madman returned to their table, fists still clenched in fury. He slid lower in his seat in sheer exasperation, gawking slack-jawed at his three brothers-in-arms who continued their card game unperturbed.

Had they not noticed the man was on his way out the door! Was it truly necessary to bellow the embers of this guy’s rage back into a full blown inferno? Couldn’t they let the moment pass into peace, for God’s sake?

“Why should I pity the scheming weasel? He has transfixed my wife with his evil charms!”

Aramis wasn’t about to let THAT pass. He straightened imperiously in his seat and kicked aside the subduing pressure of Athos’ boot. Before Athos could act to quell his comrade’s reaction, Aramis’ response to the man was out of his mouth.

“So now this Aramis reprobate is a _sorcerer_ as well?”

Cheeks blazing red, eyes as hard and dark as coal, he looked up at the huge man and snarled, “I mean, given this fellow’s apparent peculiarity of appearance -”

He snapped his eyes to d’Artagnan.

“And his notable incompetence with guns, swords and horses -”

He snapped his eyes to Athos and Porthos.

“And the_ legendary_ witless temperament he is rumored to possess-”

A fiery glance all around the table.

“Why do you persist in assuming he is such a wizard at wooing a woman to the mattress?Perhaps it wasn’t HE who did the seducing!”

The room seemed to fall quiet after (what they all recalled later was) a collective gasp between them and the interested onlookers. In the brief shocked silence, a distant muttered curse, followed immediately by a fervent and penitent prayer, could be heard from the far corner to which Monsieur Pépin had fled.

All eyes were on the big angry man as well as the smaller, yet deadlier-looking man that had risen in a slow, serpentine movement from his chair to stand nose to chin with his opponent.

“Are you accusin’ my Rosine of invitin’ that devil into our marriage bed?”

_Rosine? _Aramis’ head quirked to the side, as if he had misheard the man.

_Rosine?_ He didn’t know any woman by the name of Rosine.

When he heard a whispered moan of chagrin, Aramis looked down at the figure beside him. d’Artagnan had slumped in his chair ever so slightly. The heads of Athos and Porthos were turning toward their youngest comrade.

Returning his attention to the man standing over him, Aramis cleared his throat and raised his hands in a sudden gesture of conciliation. “My good sir, it is clear to me that you are suffering in your heart and soul, so I can no longer continue this charade. Forgive our earlier jest. It was meant only for our entertainment and now I understand this is clearly not the time for humor. Allow me to apologise and confess I am named Aramis - and you must believe me, please! - I do not know anyone by the name of Rosine.”

In that same instant, the smaller man wisely moved. He was swift, efficiently ducking a powerful punch meant for his face. The blow had so much thoughtless force that it spun the big brute forward and around until he lurched backward with little grace into the iron embrace of Porthos who had sprung up as soon as Aramis had moved out of the way.

The big man struggled, red-faced and sputtering, in Porthos’ grip as Aramis tried to calm the man down. Athos wisely signaled to Monsieur Pépin for more wine, ale and one extra cup to be brought to the table.

As Aramis and Porthos tried to diplomatically convince their new captive companion into a more sensible position on this whole adultery issue of his, Athos tapped the shoulder of their youngest brother, who was now holding his head in his hands and quietly chastising himself in a painful mantra of curses.

“Though you are well past the age of curfew, both in years and - _ahem_ \- experience now, I think it is time for you to head home. To your _own_ bed. Leave the remainder of this problem for us to sort out.”

“But...” d’Artagnan’s misery was written on his pale handsome face.

“Now is not the time,” Athos said. “Aramis will not be angry with you, and your name will not be drawn into this. It may not seem like this will end happily for all parties concerned right now, but I assure you that it will. Though, in warning, I must tell you, Porthos may have a word or two for you later as he is incomprehensibly protective of Aramis. As for me, I... Well, I will probably have a lecture or two - or three - for you as well. But not tonight.”

“What about Rosine?” d’Artagnan was wide-eyed with concern.

Athos looked over at his two brothers. Porthos had already relaxed his grip and the big man was slumped like a chastened child in his arms. He seemed to be attentively listening to Aramis’ passionate and animated sermon.

‘’By the time our romantic brother Aramis has pressed a new philosophy on him, that man will go home to his Rosine with flowers and apologies and an entirely new outlook on women.“ Athos clapped the young man on the shoulder. “And if that shouldn’t happen and for any reason, Rosine should find herself ill-treated or neglected again... Well, that man will also be going home with the memory of a musketeer threat still ringing in his ears, I am sure. We will be keeping an eye on the situation. All right?”

d’Artagnan hung his head, nodding. Then, in nearly the same instant, his head shot up and he was looking Athos in the eyes, horrified. “Do you think Constance will hear of my... my indiscretion?”

Athos smiled. The young man was truly besotted with the lovely, unattainable lady of his dreams. “You mean Madame Bonacieux? Why, for the love of God,aren’t you using all this reckless energy of yours to pursue that path, brother?” Athos sighed and pushed d’Artagnan gently in the direction of the exit. “She won’t hear it from us. It’s one of those ‘_all for one_’ things, you see.”

“Right!” d’Artagnan looked relieved as he turned to sprint for the door.

Monsieur Pépin had delivered more wine, a pitcher of ale and the requested additional cup to their table. Athos pressed some coins into his hand as the tubby little innkeeper passed by.

“Oh no, no, my dear sir!” Pépin breathed. “I am just grateful you seem to have drawn a peaceful conclusion to this peculiar matter. Keep your coin. And do not expect this kind of offer from me ever again.” With a scowl and a wink, he moved away.

At the table, Porthos was already pouring a generous cup of ale for the big man who had been ready to challenge them all just moments ago.

Aramis was still talking. Cajoling. Compassionate. Contrite. Convincing.

Athos smiled. He had been saved from boredom and he had learned a surprising lesson tonight: _All that glitters is... not always Aramis._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


	9. In Every Season - Winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 9: In Which ‘Being Left Out In The Cold’ Can Sometimes Be Fun
> 
> It's winter and all of Paris has another reason to hate the Cardinal. Which affords Aramis the perfect cover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be posted in... well, WINTER. It mouldered on my hard drive instead. However, since winter has decided to RETURN to the Great Lakes, instead of moving to its proper hemisphere at this time of year, I took the snowfall outside of my window as a sign to get rid of this bit of seasonal silliness.

“I’m ready for him! _Whatever_ he’s up to... I. am. ready!” Athos declared enthusiastically as he approached Porthos and d’Artagnan at their table in the Ruddy Duck Inn.

Porthos looked up at him, pretending to be mystified. “Ready for whom, exactly?” He grinned and elbowed the young musketeer next to him, pointing his chin at Athos and his unusual show of exuberance.

“Aramis, of course! It’s the winter solstice! The new season officially has broken upon us! Surely you’ve noticed that we have hardly seen the man since we returned to Paris?”

“Aye... So? Is this about that deranged theory of yours that Aramis will be driven to commit some nuisance that, in turn, will force you to bring some apocalyptic punishments on him so that he might live out the rest of the winter season like some peculiar sort of martyr?”

“Or will he once again slip from Athos’ chastisements like a greased piglet escaping its executioner?” d’Artagnan snickered. “I’m sure you are aware by now that the monitoring of these seasonal dramas between you and Aramis have become entertainment for the entire garrison.”

Athos shrugged. “I freely admit that I am as entertained as everyone else. And though he has yet to admit it - publicly or privately - I believe Aramis looks forward to these challenges as much as the rest of us. He delights in them! Even though the engineering and attainment of his little misadventures must cost him as much time and energy as the punishments I am required to dole out every damn time.”

“It’s only the first day of winter, Athos! You’ve had too much time off recuperatin’. I’m guessin’ ya spent it overthinkin’ and over-plannin’. Pace yerself and yer Aramis vigilance. Need I remind ya that the man hates the cold, hates the snow, hates the days robbed of sunlight?” Porthos gently chided their lieutenant“Anyway, I’ve not seen him since we returned to Paris from the Cardinal’s little war. Nor have I caught wind of any scandal, trickery or scheme that has his name attached to it.”

There was something in the lilt of Porthos’ voice in that last statement that gave the older musketeer pause, but he chose to dismiss it almost immediately as he reached for the mug of mulled wine set before him by one of daughters of the Ruddy Duck Inn’s owner. He was warm; he was rested; and he had contingency plans to curb his ever-errant brother in arms, Aramis. All this and two bottles of wine were all he needed to face the long dismal season ahead.

If only he could be sure of what Aramis might be up to, though...

Porthos had not met his eyes, but he did seem entirely engaged in enjoying his drink and shuffling a new set of playing cards to ‘break them in’ as he put it. (Athos suspected that his talented friend was actually engaged in ‘marking’ the new cards, but that was a matter for Porthos’ opponents, not him.)

“I know. Nor have I,” Athos muttered his response as he stripped off his gloves and extended his hands, pale with the cold, toward the warmth of the Ruddy Duck Inn’s large hearth. He grimaced, again pondering the whereabouts of Aramis during these recent wintery Parisian days and nights. “The scarcity of his appearances around us is in itself alarming.” He quirked an eye at Porthos, but the big man did not look up from his cards. 

Athos sighed. “He has caused all my thoughts in these tranquil times to turn toward what manner of mischief he might be up to out of our sight.”

“Relax, brother. You have had too much time on your hands while you and our young d’Artagnan, here, recover from your recent battle injuries. Our other pretty brother has surely found a feather bed and a soft bosom to guide and comfort him through this dark season. It’s like he’s... He’s... What’s the word I’m looking for here, d’Artagnan?”

“Hibernating,” d’Artagnan offered promptly.

“Right. Hi-? How’s that go again? Hiber-? Hyper-? Hyperventilating? It’s like a long winter’s nap, d’Artagnan tells me.”

“No, ‘hyperventilating’ is what I do when I start thinking about the kinds of things Aramis might be getting up to.” Athos signaled to the stout little inn keeper Monsieur Pépin to bring not one, but two, bottles of wine.

Porthos downed the last of his drink and smacked his lips with satisfaction. Rising to his feet, he went through the obligatory winter rituals of suiting up for a venture out into the cold streets of Paris. “Well, now that you’re here to keep an eye on our baby musketeer...”

d’Artagnan looked up and made a strangled noise of protest at the playful insult. “I resent that!”

“If ya’d ever get yer courage up to start courtin’ the lovely Madame Bonacieux,sprog, ya wouldn’t have to spend so much of yer recuperatin’ time here at the Ruddy Duck pretendin’ to learn card sharpin’ skills off me,” Porthos said with a shake of his finger at the young man.

Tucking his thick wool scarf into his leather doublet and winking at Athos as he pressed his hat onto his head, Porthos added, “Never worry about our brother Aramis. He’s always able spin straw into gold in spite of himself, eh? He’ll turn up soon. I guarantee it. Have a good night, dear brothers. See you in the mornin’.”

Athos was already settled into his routine of packing his long meerschaum pipe with the last of his imported tobacco as he watched Porthos disappear through the door into the dark. It was still early evening, an odd time for Porthos to be abandoning the gaming tables.

And that curious playful lilt was present again in his farewell just now.

_Should I be worried_, Athos wondered. He dismissed the thought immediately.

They were all winter-weary already and the season had just begun. They had returned from a brief but bloody battle at one of France’s northern borders, and they all deserved a rest. Athos and d’Artagnan, in particular, had incurred enough minor injuries between them to earn a brief rehabilitation period. Aramis and Porthos had, thank God, been spared any injuries that would have curtailed their usual city carousing.

Athos sighed and watched d’Artagnan shamelessly flirt with Monsieur Pépin’s two daughters. The boy deserved his recuperation time. They all did. That returned his thoughts to the mystery of Aramis’ prolonged absence.

The shortest day of the year was surely going to prove to be the longest for the regimental lieutenant if he didn’t have word of Aramis before the midnight bell struck.

The dull torpor of his own recuperation had given him too much time to think, just as Porthos had said. He had allayed his boredom by designing all manner of disciplinary measures and assignments that might occupy Aramis’ idle time to keep his mischievous nature in check this winter.

Pre-emptive measures, as it were.

Sadly - or happily, depending upon one’s perspective on winter weather - Paris had seen an ungodly amount of snow dropped upon it early this year. The season had just begun, but already streets, homes and markets were inundated by cold, snow and ice, making life harsher than usual.

The unusual accumulation of snow was making citizens desperate and restless. Thoroughfares had fast become impassable, markets struggled to open and Parisians struggled to get to and fro in snow-choked streets. 

It hadn’t taken long for complaints to reach the ears of the Royal Court.

Cardinal Richelieu, in particular, was being plagued with the growing dissent in the city as he was technically in charge of all public works in the absence of a replacement to the city’s governing council.

In retrospect, the old Red Menace was responsible for his own woes as he had had nearly all of the city council thrown from office just three months ago in one of his occasional fits of pique over budgetary issues.

So here it was, the first day of winter, and the money that would have ordinarily gone to the task of daily snow removal in Paris had found its way to funding the small border skirmish that had just successfully concluded a week ago.

Unfortunately, snow had come to Paris well ahead of the return of the weary soldiers and the war funds.

While the Cardinal had busied himself with war matters these past months without replacing the city’s governing council, Paris had fallen victim to an early ferocious winter**. **It was an uncharacteristic misstep for a man who prided himself on his genius for meticulous attention to details.

Like unprecedented snowfall?

Paris’ bane became Richelieu’s bane. The Cardinal had once again made himself the most reviled man in Paris.

Athos cared less about the impassable streets. It was not his problem, nor the Kings Guard, to solve.

On Richelieu’s head be it.

Yet it seems in all calamities unsung heroes and heroines arise to fill a need.

For the past couple of nights, there had been stories and rumors of a band of unknown individuals in the city who recently had worked under cover of darkness to painstakingly remove wagonloads of snow to the edges of the city gates, slowly freeing streets and markets to open for business, supply wagons, and foot traffic again.

Even if the damnable prime minister had seemed to ally with it, _snow_ would not win the great spirit of the city.

_Snow_! Athos mused. Perhaps the overabundance of the miserable white nuisance might provide countless hours of distracting work for Aramis if the man should choose to re-appear and exercise his seasonal mischief option.

~~~~~*~~~~~*~~~~~*~~~~~*~~~~~

Athos did not have long to wait.

The next morning, he made his way cautiously up the winding marble staircase in the formal lobby of the musketeer regiment’s headquarters, nursing a punishing hangover from the previous night’s useless Aramis vigil at the Ruddy Duck Inn. No reports on Aramis or trouble had been forthcoming.

The excited clatter of boots and jangle of weapons coming down the stairs toward him made him wince.

d’Artagnan arrived in a cloud of excitement before his blurring eyes.

“Did you hear, Athos? Did you see it?”

Athos groaned. “Spare me your excited tale, d’Artagnan. I can bear very little noise this morning. If there is something to see, then please, just show it to me.”

Wordlessly, the young musketeer guided him by his elbow to the grand carved window casing at the top of the stairs. The window afforded a beautiful view over whitened rooftops spotted here and there with black soot from wood fires stoked to keep shelters warm against the cold in this part of Paris.

The window they gazed out of was set high enough to allow one to look beyond the musketeer headquarters to the snow-blasted gardens of the Touilleries. Athos always stuffily thought of those gardens as woefully under-engineered while being wildly ostentatious in its imitation Italian design meant to meet the opulent whims and wishes of King Louis‘ (now exiled) mother, Marie d’Medici.

This morning, however, Athos’ attention was immediately drawn past the famous gardens to the gated entry to the courtyard of Cardinal Richelieu’s palatial residence.

Athos drew a shocked breath so deep it actually twinged his war-bruised ribs. Eyes wide, he canted his head from side to side to allow for a changing of perspective on the sight he beheld.

He could hardly trust what he saw, but there it was! A massive sculpture, fashioned from Paris’ own cursed and endless supply of snow and ice.

Enormous, proud and erect, it enjoyed appalling public exposure where it stood before the ornate gates to the cardinal’s palace courtyard.

Its position was set at a such a precise angle that it had to have been carefully pre-calculated to demand a complete view from the upper tier of rooms in which the cardinal usually took his breakfast after morning prayers.

“One might call it remarkable, were it not for its very inappropriate placement.”

“And its naked purpose.” Athos added with a sigh.

He rubbed his forehead, as his headache spiked. “One may also say about it that it could be considered obscene for either its very apparent subject matter or its choice placement on a grounds of a high officer of Mother Church and France. In either case, it certainly is anatomically - if not socially - correct. Might we guess at the name of the genius who master-minded this work of -” He coughed. “- what may be loosely termed ‘_art _’?”

“Oh, surely _he_ could not have done that on his own, Athos!” d’Artagnan’s voice was filled with wonder and admiration, yet he dared not utter the mad snow sculptor’s name.

Athos cast him a side-long glance and rolled his eyes at the young musketeer’s exhilaration over their errant comrade’s achievement.

“No indeed, he could not. However, Aramis’ many charms includes a very charismatic ability to lead men. That he no longer chooses to do so is a frustration to Captain Treville, but is also understandable to those of us who know what he has gone through in the past.”

d’Artagnan shot a quizzical look at his older mentor, but Athos did not elaborate on what he knew of Aramis’ history. Instead he waved his hand in the direction of the cardinal’s vandalized palace gates. “Yet here is evidence that he can still command an army full of mischief just when - “

He stopped abruptly when he saw a cadre of the cardinal’s Red Guard spill forth from the palace at that moment, armed with shovels and pick-axes, followed by another peculiar squad with wheel-barrows. They were moving with such desperate speed toward the offending snow sculpture that some of them were losing their footing on the icy paving stones of the courtyard, resulting in a comic scene of chaos when viewed from this distance.

d’Artagnan was nearly doubled over in laughter at the sight. Athos allowed himself a rare grin at the sight of the prime minister’s hapless soldiers falling, wheeling about, arms flailing.

“ - just when we needed to see a sight like this,” Athos continued with another half-suppressed laugh. “Well, we see the evidence that our brother was able to execute his plan for this season’s deviltry. It remains to be seen how well he has planned for covering his tracks in this, but this time it will be my great joy to absolve him of this brilliant act. I will probably have to award him some sort of medal from the citizens of Paris.”

There was a commotion in the courtyard below them. They could see the arrival of an ornate carriage. Aramis stepped out of one side of the well-appointed coach and Porthos, out of the other.

In near perfect unison, the two uniformed soldiers turned back to the coach and each could be seen to lift and kiss slender, delicate, bejeweled hands offered to them from discreetly hidden passengers within.

“Who do you suppose those women are?” d’Artagnan said, his voice softened in awe and wonder.

“They, my dear boy, are _alabis_. A clever defense for each of of our brothers.” Athos said. When he saw their two friends had turned their faces up to see their own brothers watching, he drew his sword out with a ceremonial flourish, saluted them with formality and swept it to the side in a graceful gesture of surrender.

Message received, both of the men below broke into wide, shameless grins.

Porthos hooted and pumped his fists in the air, eliciting another round of laughter from d’Artagnan, who in turn, hooted and raced down the stairway to greet the trouble-making heroes.

Aramis took advantage of the moment to solemnly remove his hat and sweep gracefully downward from his waist into a full and elaborate bow meant for Athos’ eyes only.


	10. Christmas And The Stupid Angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Athos Dares To Dream Of Another Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this one wasn’t on my hard drive. It’s been bumping around in my head since last December (timeline obvious). Never one to do things in a timely fashion, I just wrote-and-posted this today, which, incidentally, is a method that never ends well for me. I hope you still have some mugs of mulled wine or hot chocolate around to sip along with the reading of this belated Christmas tale before the temperatures climb any higher. Merry Christmas, y'all.

Athos’ fist hit the table, perilously close to where he lay his head, rattling the emptied bottles of wine nearby. “Dammit, Pépin! Why must you make such a racket!” he roared.

His regret was instantaneous. Not only had he launched a fearsome throbbing in his head, he had called down a demon upon himself. He rolled his blurry eyes upward just enough to see the ponderous belly of the Ruddy Duck Inn’s owner with two pudgy hands splayed anxiously over its girth.

“I will not repeat myself again, Monsieur Musketeer! This establishment has been closed since midday. I should have thrown you out into the snowstorm, but my saintly wife would not allow me to do so! You must know that people are content to be home with their families on this holy day! Like most GOOD Parisians, they are celebrating midnight mass at the cathedral! Even those scamps that are your friends! They are at church! Seeking to scrub the collective stains of their sins and mischief of the past year out of their souls so that they can start their mayhem again under the disapproving eyes of God in a new year! ”

Pépin made a furious pantomime of someone scrubbing in the air between them to make his point. Athos and his headache remained unimpressed.

There was more irksome clattering and he could still hear the grumpy little innkeeper’s grumbling about pampered posh patrons and their presumed perks and privileges.

And something about fallen angels.

Athos’ head spun trying to tease the sense out of the man’s endless stream of complaints.

_God Almighty! Would the man never shut up?_

Didier Emile Pépin was still muttering somewhere close by.Athos had been languishing in his favored spot near the inn’s grand fireplace for what must be... hours? When the last of the inn’s patrons had left at the noon hour, he had ordered more wine and did not move.

Much to Pépin’s aggravation.

He could hear Pépin fussing over the coals in the fireplace. There was a clatter of logs - followed, minutes later, by the crackle of a new fire that had been stoked into life.

Athos felt its fingers of warmth slide over him and felt pulled back into sleep again. He would have made it to the desired state of oblivion, too, were it not for another cascade of complaints from the disgruntled innkeeper:

“Why didn’t you leave with the others?”

_Because nobody is home. They are all dead, and the house is empty._

“I am a crazy man to put up with this!”

_We are both crazy men, my friend_

“When my wife and daughters return from midnight mass, they will see you here, and my beautiful Christmas Meal will be ruined. By you, Monsieur Grumpy Boots!”

_?? Grumpy Boots? Is that worthy of a challenge to a duel for my honor?_

He was certain he did not want to move. He could hear a new irritating sound disturbing his drunken haze. The clink of dinner ware. Pépin was setting a table.

_Mother of the Newborn Christ Child! The man is STILL grumbling!_

“I did not expect to spend this holy night with YOU, Comte de la Pain-In-The-Ass!”

_Did he learn that one from Aramis? It certainly sounds familiar..._

New smells filled the air. Savory meat pies. Cinnamon. Cloves. Puddings. Fresh baked bread and sweet rolls.

He was being assaulted_. _The familiar scents were summoning ghosts. Memories of love and laughter, warm hearths and warm hearts, gifts of gratitude for the people of the village - recognition for hard work in good times and bad. Thomas’ boyish whoop over the charcoal-colored two year old gelding gifted to him by his older brother...

_Thomas._

His ghost was here. Uninvited by Athos, but summoned by the Christmas preparations of the Ruddy Duck’s damnable innkeeper. Athos squeezed his eyes shut so hard he felt fresh pain.

_“_Pépin!_” _he roared, sweeping the empty wine bottles away from him angrily, smashing them around his feet. “MORE WINE! I have enough coin to stop your endless complaining and I order you to drag all that food to the alley and leave it for the beggars!”

“So now he thinks he is the Emperor of the World!” A full bottle of wine hit the table near him, as did a fresh cup. “Drink, you high-born bastard! May your impending stupor save you from the beating you deserve and save me from being the one to administer it! If there wasn’t a blizzard raging outside of my door, and if I wasn’t half-sick with worry over the whereabouts of my wife and daughters, I would toss you from this place right now!”

Athos straightened himself enough to reach for the bottle and send an imperial glare at the little man. “You are dismissed,” he mumbled with a sloppy wave of his free hand, He started to reach for the new cup, but then pushed it to the side, He would save the cup for Thomas. He could manage to drink straight from the bottle. It would amuse Thomas.

_Thomas_

Where had he gone? Perhaps he had gone to retrieve mother’s Christmas favorites? Dates stuffed with marzipan. Dried plums. Candied melons..

_Oreillettes - Thomas’ favorite._

Athos felt exceedingly tired now. Memories of Christmases past tumbled chaotically in his addled brain. If he could just see Thomas again...

He was vaguely aware of Monsieur Pépin’s anxious hand-wringing and pacing. He felt a frisson of shame. He had behaved badly toward the little man. The innkeeper seemed more upset than usual, but Athos couldn’t remember what the problem was.

He looked about the empty room again. There was no sign of his brother Thomas. He groaned and rested his head on the table.

_Perhaps,_ Athos thought, h_e will return if I just wait here long enough. He will find me. He will tell me how much he likes that fine grey horse. He will tell me what name he has chosen for it. If I just wait here... Perhaps Pépin will forgive me. Perhaps I can help Pépin with his problem after I get some rest. I need to rest. Just rest_

_~~~~~***~~~~~***~~~~~***~~~~~_

Athos slowly became aware of the howling of winds, and he felt an icy blast of air press against his legs. Beside him, the fire sputtered until the cold air was cut off with a noisy slamming of heavy doors. A sudden cacophony of excited voices nearly roused him to full consciousness.

“Papa! We were so frightened! The blizzard... Thank the Christ Child for our handsome guardian angel!...The storm has emptied the streets of Paris!... Our carriage was broken! I hate to think what may have happened if our angel had not found us!... Oh, Didier! Such a beautiful feast!... Papa! How hard you have worked!... We are sorry to have caused you such worry... May we invite our guardian angel to stay and share our Christmas meal? ... Of course, of course!” 

Voices continued in the distance. Nearby, Athos heard the crunch of shattered glass underfoot as someone approached his table. The wine bottles he had destroyed. Someone was standing over him. He could smell the faint scents of frankincense and beeswax. The smells of a church.

Was this the revered guardian angel the Pépin women were going on about?

It spoke, not addressing him. “How long has he been here? Like this.”

Athos recognized the angel’s voice, but as damned as his soul was right now, he could not put a name to its owner. He did not want to be disturbed. He knew only that he did not want to be disturbed. He had no need of this stupid angel’s heavenly intervention.

He was simply waiting. Thomas would come to him soon.

Pépin’s voice sounded near. “He has been here since I closed up at the midday! Monsieur Porthos set off to take his lady friend to mass and Monsieur d’Artagnan had received a message from that Madame Boniceaux that had him scurrying out of here before all of the others. And you were...?”

“At the cathedral. I assisted with the mass. I am an exceptional ‘altar boy’.” There was a smile in those words.

“He is, Didier!” piped up Madame Pépin. “Lady Morchand was heard to say that he is half the reason the turnout for that mass is so extraordinary.” Laughter. “And that pompous bishop thinks his exceptional oratory skills and fiery sermons are the reason!”More laughter. 

“ Well, it turned out to be fortunate that I left the cathedral late after helping the bishop close everything down. I found your ladies in some distress in the middle of the storm. I helped them unharness the horses, and we were all able to make it back here safely. Your carriage unfortunately has a broken axle, monsieur. It will need to be retrieved in the morning.” 

There was a long pause before the guardian angel spoke again. “Is he...?” Athos sensed he was being discussed.

“Drunk off his ass.”

THAT voice was easy enough for Athos to recognize.

Pépin. Still sounding put out.

“I lost my temper with his lordship, here.” Pépin was huffing. “Of course, now, with my wife and daughters safe and at home, I do sincerely regret doing so on such a night like this. His heart has seemed unusually troubled today. He has been talking half-coherently of his home, parents, Christmas, his brother...”

“His brother?”

_Yes, stupid angel_, Athos thought dully. _You must know him. My brother! Thomas._

“Yes, I think I heard him call for a brother named ‘Thomas’ repeatedly. Let me clean up this broken glass, then you must join us at our Christmas table.”

“I... I... No, I think I should get Athos to his bed.”

There was a wail of protest from the Pépin women.

_Stupid angel_

There was another silence. Then a short, soft huff of indignation. “What did you call me, brother?”

Had the stupid angel heard that? Had he spoken aloud?

“Stupid.” Athos rolled one eye up at the offended heavenly being. He frowned. The Pépin women’s heavenly henchman really _was_ handsome! And oddly familiar.

“I’m not the one sitting in a puddle of wine and broken glass of his own making. _Brother_,” said the stupid angel with a smirk.

That bold sass sounded familiar, too.

Athos picked his head up to get a better view of this mouthy divine darling. He was having trouble focussing. This so-called heavenly messenger’s head was crowned with dark, soft curls. _Like Thomas_. He was tall and slender. _Like Thomas_. He had a radiant smile. _Like Thomas_.

The eyes were dark, not the ice-blue hue of the de la Fere lineage, but... He had called him “Brother.” _Like Thomas_.

“Thomas. You came back.”

The angel’s radiant smile faded. “ Oh, Athos,” he said. His voice seemed made softer by sadness.

“Thomas. I waited for you. I had to see you one more time.”

His brother slid onto the bench to sit beside him. A strong arm was wrapped around his slumped shoulders, and Thomas pressed Athos’ forehead to his own. Placing a gentle kiss on his brother’s head, the angel said, “Thank you for waiting for me, _mon cher. Joyeux Noe_l.” 

Feeling peaceful for the first time on the holy day, Athos was unaware of the movements of the innkeeper and his family around the pair of them.

The Pépin family prayed and chatted quietly amongst themselves over their holiday dinner. They made very little noise as they cleaned up and readied for bed. Madame Pépincame by with extra blankets and soft pillows and a quick kiss for her guardian angel who smiled his gratitude at her. Beside them, Pépin stoked the fire, building it up one more time for his uninvited guests. He shook his head at the angel and waved a dismissive “good night”.

It had been a good Christmas.

In the corner, by the warmth of the grand fireplace, the pair of musketeers sat huddled in a sleepy embrace, one awake and watching over the other.


	11. In Which The Wisdom Of One Stone That Gets Two Birds Is Considered

Athos spied his quarry immediately upon entering the Ruddy Duck Inn. Aramis was sitting at the end of a table, peacefully reading from a small book. He was slightly removed from Porthos and d’Artagnan who seemed to be having a lively debate over a game of dice.

The musketeer lieutenant paused to order his necessary bottle of wine and a glass from Pépin the innkeeper_, _and as the little man scrambled to get the drink_, _Athos glowered at Aramis. _How does he manage to look so damned innocent?_

Captain Treville’s complaints about Cardinal Richelieu’s complaints about his niece’s complaints were still ringing in his ears. Potation in hand, he closed the space between him and the handsome rogue in a few efficient long strides. 

Once again, with the arrival of a new season, Aramis had found fertile ground in which to plant some mischief, or so the complaints had seemed to indicate.

This time it involved yet another relative of Cardinal Richelieu’s. _Why doesAramis seem to have such need to keep poking the First Minister of France in the virtual eye?_

He came to a formal halt before his brother-in-arms and waited until the man looked up at him. “What are you reading?” he asked with every indication that he was not interested in the least in what Aramis was reading.

“The Meditations of Saint Thomas Aquinas.”

“Oh, what fortunate timing! Have you happened upon the chapter in which Saint Thomas dwells on the problem of a libidinous king’s guard who continues to be caught in the halls of the palace with a lady of the court who seems to have some family connection to Cardinal Richelieu?”

Aramis sighed, slowly closed his book and dropped it dramatically onto the inn table. “What fantastical tales of _diablerie_ have my name attached to them now?”

“I just spent a cheerless hour in the captain’s office listening to grievances from Richelieu to the captain about YOU and the cardinal’s niece having amorous encounters in the hallways of the palace.”

The testy exchange caught the attention of their other two friends.

“Oi! The cardinal’s niece? You’ve put yer foot in it now...”

“Body parts _other_ than his foot are the reported concern here,” snapped Athos. “It’s springtime, of course!” He threw his hands heavenward. “The new season is here and a fresh report of mischief has reached Captain Treville’s ear - and thus, mine as well! What am I supposed to believe, Aramis?”

Aramis’ eyes widened. “Athos, I didn’t...” He looked genuinely aggrieved.

Athos threw his hat down on the table, sat heavily and pulled both of his hands through his own unruly dark locks in frustration. “Why does Treville insist on making me your keeper? Perhaps - just to simplify things -I should just insist you wear one of those medieval chastity belts.“

“Right!” Porthos laughed into his glass of ale. “Chastity belt - a famously unreliable method of keeping the proverbial bull in the proverbial shed.”

Aramis glared at the big musketeer. “Are you aiding his cause or mine?”

“I’m always on yer side, sweet brother, but I’m gonna have t’ let the entertainment potential on this one play out,” Porthos said with a finishing belch and an impish smile at his distressed friend.

Aramis, looking wounded, turned back to Athos. “Chastity belt. As if...! You, sir, sound like a dictator.”

“I am merely trying to deal with yet another seasonal misadventure of your making...”

“NOT of my making!” Aramis insisted again.

“Fine. No chastity belts. It was an idea born out of frustration.”

“Still... Kinda _dick-_tator-ish, my friend.”

“Perhaps if you paid attention to any of my many lectures...”

“Endless. _Endless_ lectures,” Aramis asserted.

“... regarding behaviors involving the cardinal’s female relatives...”

“I repeat, Athos. I was NOT the aggressor. She had stalked me for the entire span of my guard duty that day. When she finally had caught me alone, she pinned me up against a _very_ uncomfortable 12th century suit of armor in the Hall of...”

“The armor of the French King Philip the First?” d’Artagnan breathed, eyes wide in awe.

“The same.”

“Also known as ‘Philip the Amorous’!” Porthos laughed with a clap of his hands. “Perfect! Yer lady’s a crafty vixen, eh?”

“Crafty or craven, it wasn’t so funny at the time, brother. And she is not my lady!” Aramis squawked.“Her hands were all over me! She got really busy between...” The marksman squirmed uncomfortably and blushed. “Uh.. between my... between the... uh..._cuirass_* and the _cuisses_*!”

Looking harried and more upset, he posed one hand just below his neck and the other down by his thighs, projecting an imaginative map of the area over which the countess’ questing hands had roamed so aggressively. Porthos and d’Artagnan studied the area indicated by Aramis’ instructive mime as if a battlefield had been charted and there was some strategy to be learned from it.

“She was heedless of my objections, Athos!” Aramis continued squalling. “I suspect that her anger over my rejection is the reason Captain Treville is hearing these slanderous complaints about me.”

“Perhaps if you hadn’t locked her in that closet...” Athos drawled with no hint of sympathy.

Aramis slumped back against the bench wall as Porthos and d’Artagnan turned big eyes on their handsome brother-in-angst. “She was a scratching, spitting wild-cat! I was alone with a mad-woman and the nearly-decimated armor of a 12th century king of France, for pity’s sake!”

Athos closed his eyes and just let his head rock in his hands. “Perhaps Treville would be satisfied if I would just take you over my knee like a toddler and thrash the living daylights out of you.”

Porthos interrupted his friend’s rant with a whoop, slapping a coin down on the table. “Finally! Some action! I’d pay to see that!” 

Apparently there were a number of the Ruddy Duck Inn’s patrons that were of the same mind. Coins from all over the room suddenly rained down at Athos’ feet.

Aramis huffed, crossed his arms over his chest and fixed an indignant glare on an imaginary point in the distance.

Inexplicably, d’Artagnan dropped to the floor and eagerly began collecting the coins around them.

Athos lifted his head to look down at the young musketeer scrabbling about at his feet.

“Boy! What are _you_ doing?! Why are you encouraging this nonsense?”

“Nonsense?” Aramis muttered to no one in particular. “As if false accusations and spanking threats weren’t nonsense enough!”

Shamefaced, d’Artagnan paused, both hands filled with coins, and said, “I need the money for lodging! Constance declared last night that I have broken yet another one of the rules of the Bonacieux household and has turned me out on my ear!”

Exasperation was clear on Athos’ face. ”AGAIN? Unbelievable...” 

The older musketeer, head now full of respect and wonderment at Madame Bonacieux’s admirable ability to command peace and order from the rabble with such unquestioned ease, turned and shook a finger at Aramis. “Constance seems to have better luck commanding miscreants than I do! Maybe I should ask her to be your warden this season!”

Aramis came quickly to life, swinging his arms open wide in a gesture of mock surrender. “Yes, yes! Agreed! I am at your mercy. And hers! Lock me up immediately!” Aramis chortled, “There could be no finer imprisonment for a man who has done _nothing_ wrong! Life under the beautiful eyes of Constance would be... ”

Out of the corner of his eye, Athos saw d’Artagnan’s head pop up from under the table where he had continued his scramble for coins, a look of horror settling plainly on his face as soon as Constance’s name fell from Aramis’ lips.

It was then that the musketeer second-in-command realized his mistake.

Aramis would never have the opportunity to finish his sentence.

d’Artagnan rose up from the floor with a snarl and launched himself at Aramis as the man was in heart-felt mid-praise of Madame Bonacieux’s many gifts. Coins and the “Meditations of Saint Thomas Aquinas” flew into the air once again as the two were swept off the bench by the force of d’Artagnan’s full-body tackle.

Athos sighed and refilled his wine glass as he and Porthos watched the two musketeers wrestling on the floor. Porthos leaned toward him. “Wanna place any wagers on this?”

“No, not this time. I feel a grave responsibility for this one.”

“Fair enough. I hope you’ve learned some lessons about presuming Aramis is guilty when ya might consider how he may be innocent. Some of the time.”

“I could fill a book of fiction with Aramis’ ‘Tales of Innocence’.” Athos said with a resigned sigh of affection for the marksman. He poured himself another glass of wine.

Aramis now had d’Artagnan securely pinned in what could reasonably be called a victory, but their youngest was pummeling Aramis’ fine grey hat under his one free hand in a last ditch effort to infuriate. The beloved head gear now resembled a mangled squirrel.

“Perhaps I will buy Aramis another hat as my apology,” Athos mused.

Porthos and Athos were quiet, content to be entertained by Aramis’ repeated roaring at d’Artagnan to _‘give up, you infantile idiot’_ and d’Artagnan’s unrelenting but useless rejoinder that he ‘_could_ _kick Aramis’ ass any time’_ he wanted to do so.

After several minutes of this stand-off, Porthos said in a quiet aside, “Ya know, brother, you might negotiate somethin’ with the lovely Madame Bonacieux and get both of our younger brothers locked up for the season under her rule.”

Athos raised his glass in a salute to his big musketeer comrade. “Excellent proposal, _mon cher_! One smooth, lovely stone to get two unruly birds.”

~~~~~***~~~~~***~~~~~***~~~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cuirass* - Armored plate for the chest  
cuisses*- Armored plates for the thighs


	12. Where There Is Smoke...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which three of the Inseparables make the case that "smoke" doesn't always indicate "fire"

“Athos, Aramis and Porthos are here.” d’Artagnan whispered.

Athos knew the pair had arrived. From his position behind the pages of the newspaper he was reading, he had heard the sullen scrape of chairs and felt the aggressive jarring of the table. He had summoned all of them to this little tete-a-tete at their usual table in the Ruddy Duck Inn.

They had seated themselves across from him.He sensed Aramis’ and Porthos’ resentful silence and d’Artagnan's jittery anxiousness.

None of them were likely to be happy about the meeting; there had been a complaint made to their captain, Jean de Treville. Predictably, it fell to Athos to be the chief investigator of the incident.

Far from feeling any discomfort with the awkward silence, Athos was content to remain as they found him, hidden behind the pages of Paris’ new, innovative publication, _La Gazette, _reading for a few minutes more. Satisfied that he had let the trio stew long enough in the imposed quiet, the musketeer lieutenant let the paper slowly roll downward until he was looking directly at the soldiers across the table from him.

They were all uncommonly quiet; the three tankards of ale set before them were untouched.

“As you have probably surmised, I’ve heard the complaint against you, gentlemen. The Cardinal has already bent Treville’s ear about the insult suffered by ten of his men at a bathhouse on _Rue M__ouiller_. I must say, the report as told to me is intriguing! How did you men manage to bring about such a conflagration without even being near the bathhouse - a notoriously wet environment, I understand. How does one create such a firestorm without any flammable materials?”

Porthos gave a great bear-like grumble and muttered something unintelligible. Aramis, with the requisite roll of eyes condemning Athos’ swift accusation, was the first to speak.

“Please, Athos. ‘Conflagration’ and ‘firestorm’ are such weighty words. And neither is entirely accurate. At the very least, you may say the firestorm referred to is figurative,” he said with a bit of disdain. “I have been told the incident was but a small, smokey combustion. Some _things_ which belonged to a company of ten Red Guard may have merely gotten a bit smudged and smelly.”

“Their clothes!” Porthos interjected merrily.

“Okay. Yes." Aramis soldiered on with a side-glance at his friend. "Their uniforms may have sustained a bit of damage. The unfortunate _accidental_ combustion happened to be in the bathhouse wardrobe room that held - ”

“Their clothes!” Porthos added again with a heartier laugh.

“Right - but, Athos, we are innocent! We admit we had use of the bathhouse far earlier that morning. All that can be said of our involvement is that we may have carelessly left behind a harmless package in that room.”

“ ‘May have’?” Athos echoed, a vivid display of characteristic skepticism animating his usually somber face.

“All right, all right - yes. We _did_ leave behind a package. However, you know me to be a cautious man, Athos! If - I say _IF_ \- the cause of this unfortunate incident is found to be some misplaced musketeer stock, I assure you it was clearly marked with the appropriate warnings.”

“And you did that, how?”

“Ah! Well... Long story, short...Uhm... “ Aramis reached around to the back of his head, patting and stroking his mane of dark curls, looking boyishly self-conscious.

Athos immediately recognized the ploy as stalling while the man searched for the precise words to frame this story as an innocent mistake.

“The sealed packet that I - _we_ -might have absent-mindedly left behind contained what you would recognize as simple foodstuffs: saltpeter, sugar and… uhm… sodium bicarbonate.”

The musketeer scratched at his ear in another nervous gesture and looked to his partner-in-mischief, who nodded, affirming and encouraging the telling of the tale. “There may have been an addition of blue dye, as well. And perhaps more saltpeter than would ordinarily have been given a proper pass.”

Aramis was clearly warming to his story as he continued to press the case for innocence. “Athos, it was marked very, very clearly. The legend upon it was writ large: _‘Do Not Place This Package In Fire.’_ Additionally, I made certain it carried all the necessary gravitas by marking it with the Musketeer insignia, adding_‘Return To King Louis’ Royal House Guard, The Pride Of France’._See? No malice, no intent! We should not be held responsible for the choices the Red Guard made next.”

“I see! Thus, in your absence, you were still able to offer them a temptation - one might even call it an inducement! - to seize said ‘harmless’ packet - a packet which sounds suspiciously like it contained one of your little experiments in alchemy, Aramis, not cookery - so that they toss it upon the fire in defiance of what must have seemed like an inviting challenge to offend the King’s Musketeers.”

“Well, to be fair, who could have predicted that any of that particular lot could even read?” Porthos groused, causing d’Artagnan to erupt in a fit of giggles. He fell dead silent as soon as Athos’ ice-blue eyes turned upon him.

Having successfully quelled the youngest’s giggles, Athos went on, “Just so I get this straight for Captain Treville: the proper telling of this incident is that the Red Guard ostensibly destroyed a package of musketeer property by seizing it - clearly marked as it was, with identifying insignias and with a warning against throwing it into the fire -”

“Don’t forget the written entreaty to return the package!” d’Artagnan felt compelled to add.

“How could I forget?” Athos said, giving the youngest musketeer another look that caused the boy to set lower in his chair. “As I was saying, in an effort to reconstruct this incident before Treville later today: It was actually an insult to musketeer property that prompted this fiasco?”

Three heads nodded vigorously at their leader.

“_Et voilà!_ Ten sets of Red Guard clothing are roguishly ruined by your effective little smoke bomb?”

“Personally, Athos, I would not using the term ‘smoke bomb’ when you are before the captain,” Aramis suggested in a small voice.

Athos glared at him for a long moment then looked at each of the three in turn, sucking pensively on his teeth. “It would appear, gentlemen, that you have achieved _all_ of the results with _none_ of the gravitas.”

Lamb-like, Aramis lowered his head and looked up through his dark eyelashes at his comrade, one elegant hand spread over his heart in his most favored charm-offensive. “_Écoutez-Moi, mon cher!_We merely exploited the considerable overlap between the intelligence of the smartest of the Red Guard and the dumbest of Paris’ rat population.”

Athos bit the inside of his cheek in an effort not to laugh at Aramis’ comment; it was best not to encourage his sly-natured friend in situations like this. Complaints had been made by the disgruntled Red Guard to their commander-in-chief, Cardinal Richelieu. A defense of minor mischief and innocent forgetfulness would not stand before their own commander, Captain Treville.

Turning this matter on its head and blaming the Red Guard would stand quite well, however. He had to admire the ingenuity of his beloved troublemakers.

Finally, he sighed in resignation, “At least, may I inquire as to the motivations behind the alchemy, the absent-mindedness and the end result?”

Aramis’ face settled instantly into something resembling a tightly closed book. Porthos was suddenly given over to admiring the ceiling and rafters above their table. Surprisingly, it was d’Artagnan who rose to the defense in answer their lieutenant’s inquiry.

“Those Red Guard bastards had been relentlessly hounding me about Constance Bonacieux and recently, they had dared to assert untruths about her that had most sorely aggrieved me!”

The handsome youth’s angry voice boomed so loudly over the room that it served to silence every other patron in the pub.

Finding himself the singular point of attention, d’Artagnan blushed deeply and sagged a bit in an unconscious effort to make himself smaller. He looked as if he wanted to slap himself for inadvertently blurting out the name of the definitely-married object of his young affections.

Aramis dropped his head into his hands with a groan of exasperation. Porthos contorted his mouth into an odd thin line in an effort not to laugh before interjecting, “The Kid ’s been takin’ it on the chin for a while, Athos. We stopped him from takin’ on that entire cabal of Red Guard that’s been singlin’ him out for their jests. Ten of ‘em! Aramis an’ me were kinda teachin’ him that direct confrontation ain’t always the best way t’ silence the ignorant.”

“Oh? Teaching? Lessons in nobility or lessons in malfeasance?”

That caused Aramis to immediately lift his head and remark haughtily, “I suppose you are going to tell us there is a difference?”

“You know I will not, brother,” Athos said as he rose from their table, set his leather hat just-so on his head and folded his smudged, half-read copy of _La Gazette _under his arm.

“Well, I am off to plead our case to Treville now that I seem to have the right of it. I shall be sure to make sure the story turns back on the Red Guard and their involvement in the missing musketeer ‘property’ that had been so unfortunately left behind that fateful morning.”

Turning to leave, he stopped beside d’Artagnan and placed a firm hand on the young man’s shoulder. “As the newcomer to our little circle, I must tell you your puppy-like enthusiasm is the tool that Aramis will use to draw you in to his misadventures. He is an artist.”

He then nodded toward Porthos, who sat with a wide smile of wickedness of his own. “And I would caution you that our big brother’s mischief also has its own allure.”

“Are you warning me?”

“Not at all,” Athos said with a smile. “Having myself fallen to the charms of both of these devils, I am encouraging you.”

Aramis and Porthos bowed in acknowledgement. Aramis added as all three of them lifted their tankards in salute, “Athos, you are too modest. d’Artagnan will soon learn that in all matters, noble and ignoble, _you_ are our guiding light.”

~~~~~***~~~~~***~~~~~***~~~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “La Gazette” was France’s first official, regularly published “newspaper” . It debuted in the 17th century, and so I shoe-horned it into this imaginary time-line - because Athos reading a paper, sitting by a fireplace while the other three quietly await a dressing-down is a soothing imagery in this world.


	13. To Be Or Not To Be... French

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which Poor Will ‘R.I.P.’ Shakespeare Is Unceremoniously Expatriated

“Ah, here comes trouble! Where have you two been?” Athos looked up from the task of opening a new bottle of wine that had just been delivered to his table at the Ruddy Duck Inn to see Porthos and Aramis making their way through the pub crowd toward him.

Porthos was looking a little worse for wear, dusty and disheveled and holding the side of his face as Aramis steered him by one elbow to a chair next to Athos. 

“We are returning to your side for drink and comfort, brother.” Aramis was the first to speak. “Porthos - to nurse a possible broken jaw and I - to nurse a broken heart over a romantic encounter brought to an abrupt and premature end when our beloved Porthos got himself into a spot of bother at the market just now.”

“That spot o’ bother saved yer pretty ass! Ya had to go preenin’ yer pretty feathers around that British bird, didn’t ya? An’ now I got this shiner on my left eye and a sore jaw t’ answer for it!”

Aramis looked properly indignant.“I don’t know what you are going on about. In any case, the ‘bird’ had flown the minute you put her boyfriend’s face into the dust. Will you tell me now what all the bother was about, Porthos? You and that fellow she flew off with were really going at it in the square.”

“In an effort to distract the English prick from heading over to where you were sweet-talking his lady love, I voiced an opinion that happened to irritate him mightily on a matter that he was sensitive about.”

“Dare we ask?” Athos dared to ask. He was already settling back into his chair and propping his legs up on the hearth nearby, anticipating what he suspected was going to be an entertaining response.

Porthos loved the telling of a tale, especially if he was the hero of that tale. Still holding the side of his face gingerly, he managed a crooked grin and turned to the other musketeer at the table. “Ya know that posh poet we’re so fond of, Aramis?”

“William Shakespeare?” 

“Yeah... I’m rememberin’ correctly that he’s the one that wrote ‘bout my man _Othello_? Right?”

“The same.” Aramis agreed as he took Porthos’ chin gently in hand and gave the purpling bruises on Porthos’ lovely coffee-colored face a critical assessment. “In _Othello_, brother, there is a line that had a thing or two to say regarding drinking and brawling that might apply in your situation: _’I have very poor and unhappy brains for drinking. I could well wish courtesy would invent some other custom of entertainment_’.* ” 

“Was that a ...? Did you just take a jab at me bein’ drunk an’ brawlin’?”

“No. William Shakespeare did.”

“Right. Shakespeare.” Porthos muttered. “Drunk ‘r no, I simply opined that that genius Shakespeare fella had to be French-born, and the British bastard straight-away launches into a fist fight with me!”

He swayed and smiled at his handsome brother-in-arms who was clucking at him like a mother hen while he examined him for injuries from the short but ferocious brawl regarding questionable claims over Shakespeare’s true homeland. 

Athos immediately hoisted his flagon of wine in a mock salute. “Of course, you had no idea about why the man might have taken such peculiar offense over a _French-born_ Shakespeare.”

“O’course I didn’t!” Porthos chortled with a twinkle in his eye. “Then again, the ferocity of his attack might also have had somethin’ to do with Aramis romancin’ the posh git’s woman at the back o’ the baker’s stall.”

“Ah! Well, _‘there’s the rub’_ ** as your fellow _French_ countryman Will Shakespeare might say.” said Athos wryly. Immediately saluting Aramis in turn, he asked, “Discussing the great playwrights of England - I mean, France - were you, Aramis?”

Aramis smiled sweetly in response and shrugged. “Not really. The lady claimed only to be excellently schooled in some of England’s lower forms of poetry, _mon cher_. She was most keen to impress some lessons upon me. Were it not for Porthos’ scholarly exchange with her escort, I might still be at her side, learning most eagerly.”

_“_As is always the case with your ill-timed choice of conquests, Aramis,_ ‘the attempt and not the deed confounds us’.***”_

“Our predicament seems to have released your inner Shakespearean bard, my friend!” Aramis lifted his own glass in a return salute.

“More likely the second of his two bottles of wine, I reckon.” Porthos grumbled as he massaged his jaw. “Anyway, the Brit had Aramis in his sites an’ I could tell he wasn’t keen to stop an’ discuss plays and poetry with me, soI mighta stoked the fires with that quote I shared with him before I offered my opinion on the bard’s birthplace.”

“And that was?”

“You well know the one, Athos. I hear ya mutterin’ it nearly every time ya meet with Richelieu. ‘_I never see thy face but I think upon hell-fire’_.****”

Rubbing his jaw, he turned back to Aramis. “Look here, brother, can you tell if I am gonna lose a tooth? There’s one that seems a tad wobbly…”

“What of the other fellow? The other Shakespearian aficionado?” Athos inquired.

“Pro’ly won’t need Aramis’ expert surgical opinion. He’s still spitting’ out teeth in the back alleyway,” Porthos answered as he lifted his face to Aramis and opened his mouth for examination.

“Charming,” Athos drawled with a mock quizzical expression on his face. “And yet it still continues to puzzle us all as to why Treville avoids giving you more assignments in diplomatic services.”

Porthos rolled his eyes at Athos’ wicked taunt and winced at Aramis’ kindly probing of his bruised jaw.

Finished with probing his big brother’s mouth, Aramis finally seated himself as he offered his opinion and stern orders. “You must keep to soft foods for a fortnight. No gnawing at gristle or cracking meat bones to suck marrow! If you are sensible, your dazzling smile will be safe and will remain in your mouth well into old age. Until your injury heals, however, you will have difficulty masticating.”

Porthos looked at Aramis, clearly alarmed. “Say what again?! Difficulty masticating!”

“Calm yourself, brother,” Athos drawled. “Masticating simply means ‘chewing’. Using your jaw. He did not in any way mean to imply that your personal adventures in onanism********* would be at risk.”

With a quick side eye to Aramis, the older musketeer scolded, “You could have told him that.”

“I could have, brother, but you did a fine job of relieving his hilariously misguided stress.”

Still in the mood to hand out reprimands, Athos turned back to Porthos. “You would do well to keep your literary theories to yourself for a while, too, _mon cher_. Enthusiasts of the well-turned word can be very unforgiving.”

“Fanatics o’ fiction, ya mean,” Porthos grumbled, rubbing his jaw. Then he brightened. “Fan-fiction! Did I just coin a word? Ain’t that what Shakespeare’s stuff is? All them stories ‘bout Julius Caesar an’ all the Kings Henry?”

Athos rolled his eyes at that as he settled back onto his bench with his pipe and tobacco pouch. “French or English, I don’t think your Shakespeare would think ‘fan-fiction’ means what you seem to think it means. As a common term, it will never hold a place in the lexicon of human language.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Aramis mused dreamily. “It has a lyrical lilt. Might catch on.”

Suddenly, the marksman leaned over the table and said in a low, conspiratorial tone, “Have you heard the rumors that those plays and sonnets published under the name William Shakespeare were _not_, in fact, written by William Shakespeare at all?”

Porthos’ eyes went round and his mouth dropped open in a wee bit of gleeful surprise. “Oi! Ya don’ say!” He reached for his hat, pressing it onto his head as he rose and gathered up his weapons belt, readying to leave.

“Where do you think you’re going, brother?” Aramis asked, startled.

Porthos was already headed for the door. “Goin’ t’ find m’ new British friend!” he called over his shoulder. “Gonna have some more literary discussions ‘bout fan-fiction an’ our boy Shakespeare!”

Aramis rocketed to his feet to follow the big musketeer, babbling discouragements, citing Porthos’ injured jaw, loose teeth and his propensity for misquotes and provocations.

The tubby little innkeeper of the Ruddy Duck Inn, Monsieur Pépin, had wandered by the table as the two left and stared after them as they were leaving.

“What are those two arguing about?” he asked Athos as he collected their abandoned drink ware.

Athos shrugged as he looked up at the man and said brightly “My dear Pépin, it is simply ‘_much ado about nothing_’.****** ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
(1) From “Othello”: Act 2, Scene 3 - (but you knew that)  
(2) From “Hamlet” - part of a very famous soliloquy (but you knew that, too)  
(3) From “Henry IV, Part 1” Act 3, Scene 3” - (so many, many uses for this quote in these pandemic times, especially when hurtled at the ‘mask-adverse’)  
(4) From “Macbeth” Act 2, Scene 2 - (the Lady Macbeth doth speak this)   
(5) onanism - Tsk. Google it, for Pete’s sake. Athos is not your mom.  
(6) From “Much Ado About Nothing” - Really? Are you still reading this? Move along. 
> 
> A smarter, more disciplined Shakespeare fan could have had much wittier fun with this, but I am a mere plebeian in the Shakespearian Social Circles. I hope you enjoyed it, nonetheless.


	14. Tréville 1: Long Story - Shortened Considerably by Athos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which the Big Dog Visits, Only To Learn He Cannot Rely On Facts

“You can thank the lady of the house, Madame Pépin, for the ambiance in this place,” Athos was saying by way of welcome as he stood to acknowledge the approach of his commander toward his usual place by the hearth of the Ruddy Duck Inn.

There was an odd tang of impatience in the man’s voice, Tréville noticed. Curious. As curious as the near empty tavern. Wasn’t this place supposed to be a popular watering hole for his garrison’s soldiers? And where were the other three members of _Les Inseparables_?

Tréville knew his arrival would be a surprise, but by the look on his soldier’s face, it was not an unpleasant one. However, it seemed to have caught the garrison’s famous swordsman slightly off-guard as evidenced by his peculiar chatter as he went on with another seemingly pointless remark as Tréville neared his table.

“The saintly woman has extraordinarily good taste, except for that one disastrous marital decision she made years ago.” Athos cast a meaningful glance at the tubby little innkeeper of the Ruddy Duck Inn as the captain seated himself.

Monsieur Pépin, the inn’s owner, sniffed arrogantly as he scrubbed angrily at the table space in front of Captain Jean-Armand du Pryer de Tréville while addressing his disparager, Athos. ”If you think your high-borne status and the presence of your famous commander Captain de Tréville here in my establishment will keep you from getting shown the door like that huge bear that you keep company with, Monsieur _Malapert_, you are in for a rude awakening!”

The captain of King Louis XIII’s Royal House Guards smiled to himself. Maybe the remarks weren’t pointless after all. There was clearly some tension between the two.

Hearing his reserved noble second-in-command taken down verbally like an errant schoolboy was a bit startling, and he had to admit, also a tad amusing. It occurred to him that he had made a good choice in tracking his lieutenant to his favorite tavern instead of commanding the soldier to appear in the office for this ridiculous round of questioning pressed upon him by yet another set of complaints by the king’s First Minister, Cardinal Richelieu.

“Three hours since your face-off with my brother Porthos and still the adrenaline hasn’t worn off, Pépin?” Athos was drawling lazily at the chubby fellow hovering nearby.

Tréville quirked an eyebrow at Athos as Pépin reverently placed a bottle of brandy and a clean glass on the gleaming portion of table in front of the musketeer captain and bowed to him.Having paid the captain of King Louis’ Royal House Guard all his proper due, the man turned on Athos, finger wagging imperiously. “And you...! You! The major-domo of those other three hellions! I will bring you your preferred drink in my own good time!” With a huff, he spun on his heels and walked away from the table, muttering to himself.

Tréville arched an eyebrow again as he reached for the brandy bottle. Pretending to study its makers mark, he opined, “Feelings seem to be running a bit high, I assume?”

Athos rolled his eyes

“My coin will keep him tolerable for a while,” Athos grumbled. “Apart from his sour attitude, you may rest assured his wife and daughters do well love us, as much as they love King Louis, France and God. So as soon as Pépin and Porthos get over their little spat, all of the normal fractious life within these walls will return.”

“In whatever way it is that the four of you define ’normal’,” Tréville added knowingly. He sipped at the brandy that had been set before him as Pépin once again approached the table and dropped Athos’ wine and glass before him with much less decorum than he had served the captain of the musketeers.

Lifting his glass of brandy to the frazzled innkeeper, Tréville announced, “Sir, you serve a fine brandy! Honorably, you don’t water down your product. You have my respect and -” When he saw Pépin blush with pride and smile, forgetting his cantankerous musketeer-driven mood, the captain diplomatically added, “- you have my gratitude for creating an establishment of pleasant accommodation and safety for my soldiers.”

Pépin’s mouth dropped open a bit. His eyes shot rapidly between Athos and the revered Jean-Armand du Peyrer, Comte de Tréville. He had been abruptly and effectively wooed into a state of contentment and pride, his agitation suddenly forgotten, despite the numerous empty chairs and tables around them that screamed of lost revenue for the night. Stunned into a loss of words, he even offered Athos a quick moderately amicable nod as he backed away from the table, pacified for a moment by the famous commander’s high praise.

Athos tactfully avoided smirking as he poured his own drink and lifted his glass to Tréville in gratitude. “Thank you for negotiating that bit of peace.”

“Were it that they were all that easy,” Tréville remarked sagely, as he set aside the sheaf of papers he had carried in with him and picked up his own glass to return the salute. “In any case, it would have been better if the others were here to help sort out this most recent Red Guard complaint. I swear, I don’t know whether to laugh or spit when the Cardinal sees fit to bring up these nuisances at the daily briefings with the King.”

Athos frowned. “What is King Louis’ reaction?”

“Thankfully, in matters like this one, Louis is still a rogue and a child at heart. Tales of the adventures of you four _Inseparables_ \- whether true or not - often seem entertaining to him. I can’t always tell if it is the vain pride he has for his own Royal House Guards or his impatience with the whining and complaining of the Cardinal and his Red Guards. In any case, I need to know more about what happened during the course of the last assignment in Évreux. Your fellow brothers-in-arms are at the center of some spurious accusations about their complicity in a scheme that sent six Red Guard to wander aimlessly in the forests - a good 40 kilometers to the northeast of the camp installation. All according to the Cardinal - who was given over at this point in his complaint to dramatizing the entire incident by comparing it to the trials of the Israelites set wandering in the desert for forty years!”

Athos did his best to keep the grin off his face. Tréville was clearly exasperated.

“Sir, I can only attest to the fact that neither Aramis, nor Porthos, nor d’Artagnan were happy about being assigned to the set-up of the Cardinal’s encampment, sharing duty and work with teams of Red Guards while being _nominally_ put in charge of the project. Aramis was given site command and communications; Porthos, infrastructure planning; d’Artagnan, procurement and delivery. As you know, I was to act as liaison between them and the Court, in charge of reports and command specifics and guidance. This was all the Cardinal’s idea, as you are also aware.

“As my specific duties here did not allow me to accompany them in the first few days, I had all the typical concerns, of course.” he said dryly. “Especially since each of them balked at their assignments.Aramis, in particular. You know he had been singled out for on-site command by none other than the Cardinal himself - a palace maneuver that is always certain to put Aramis in a mood. We all recognized that would not set well with him nor with a certain problematic gang within the Red Guard. So during my absence from the site, I had to wonder: Would orders have been followed to the letter; would there have been adequate attention paid to details; would the necessary protocols have been followed; and would grievances be avoided?”

Languidly pouring a measure of ruby-colored claret, he continued with a long sigh, “So you can imagine my relief to find, upon my arrival, that my brothers did not care a whit about any of it.”

“Your _relief_?”

“My brothers would never think to surprise me with the unthinkable.”

“And what would that be?”

“Their absolute adherence to acceptable behavior.”

Tréville coughed when amusement and surprise caught an inopportune trickle of brandy in his throat. As the commander of King Louis’ legendary musketeers, that Athos-aphorism may have been more than he needed to hear. But there was a hint of mirth in his second in command’s voice, so he dared to press for more.

“Your report reads as if you found the camp installation project well in hand with no sign of trouble.”

“Correct. No sign whatsoever.”

“And - as the Cardinal continually insisted - no sign of six Red Guard that may or may not have been a problem for Aramis, Porthos and d’Artagnan in the discharging of their duties?”

Athos downed the last of his glassful of wine and hastily refilled his glass, his eyes twinkling mischievously. “Correct, again, sir. No sign. You would have found no sign of missing Red Guards in my report because they - ” He paused, clearly looking for the right words. “Well, they were just nowhere to be seen at the construction site. They quite simply were not missed because they were never there.”

Athos tossed back the entire glass of wine with his inborn panache. “We soldiered on, as it were, with the work that was left by the time I arrived: Aramis, with his usual vulpine inclinations; Porthos, with his standard gruff cheek and young d’Artagnan, with his just-off-the-farm guilelessness. Although I am beginning to suspect the latter is far more like the other two than he lets on.”

He smiled, warming to his story. After taking another swallow of his drink, he continued, “In any case, the entire project was finished, on time, within budget, as ordered. Cardinal Richelieu’s royal encampment stands ready to receive him and his retinue in time for the consecration ceremonies of the rebuilt Lady Chapel at the Évreux Cathedral. Musketeer and Red Guard teams worked well together, apparently with the exception of a half dozen of the Cardinal’s men who allegedly found themselves wandering in a north country forest with a wagon-load of wooden planks, a bucket of nails and a made-up map. Everything else has been tidied up nicely and has been accounted for as set forth in my report to you.”

“Yes. About that…” Tréville sighed gustily and tapped the small stack of papers that lay to the side on the table. “The cardinal wants more logistical detail in it. Before you even begin to object to this - to my face as your friend or behind my back as your superior officer - I want you to understand that I recognize this demand of his for what it is: another chance to grandstand in front of Louis and another attempt to jab at me and my soldiers.” 

“So - a useless exercise.”

“Exactly.”

Tréville watched his lieutenant rub at his forehead with mild irritation. He wished he could have saved the man this idiotic bit of bother, but in truth, he had to be used to it by now with regard to the many scrapes that involved his three comrades. It was ‘_All for one; One for all’ _with these boys - never forgetting the devilment that Athos himself often got up to with his fellow rogues.

“With particular reference to the Lost Red Guards incident, the Cardinal complained rather loudly about the nature of that questionable map - the one with which his hapless guards were navigating their way?”

Athos was remarkably quick with his reply. Almost, Tréville thought, as if he had rehearsed this whole scenario . “I heard Aramis claim today, just before the fight broke out, that the map was accurate when it left his hands. The problem arose when said map was dropped in the mud and had to be expeditiously redrawn with the recollections of several other musketeers who claimed familiarity with the area.”

“I think I am beginning to see the problem. You wouldn’t know who those other musketeers were, would you?”

“There was no need to discuss that at the time, sir. As for the accuracy of my report on the successful completion of the Cardinal’s camp: when I arrived the missing contingent of Red Guard was neither known to be missing nor were they a topic of concern amongst any of the soldiers working there. The work was progressing smoothly. And this is important to emphasize - ”

He gave the captain a devilishly significant look. “Everything was progressing without strife between our men and the Cardinal’s men that were present. Mission peacefully accomplished.”

The musketeer captain sighed inwardly. So, Aramis, Porthos and d’Artagnan had conspired to remove a squad of troublemakers. This was as far as this silly interrogation had to go; he should just relax and enjoy himself as long as he was here.

Certainly, the brandy was beginning to take the edge off his frustrating day. In truth, he was glad to be here at the infamous Ruddy Duck Inn. It was a change from the drudgery of meetings, the Cardinal’s endless harangues and King Louis’ endless pretense of apathy. Even the sometimes moody company of his lieutenant was made mellower somehow by this inn’s cozy ambience.

In any case, the chubby little innkeeper served a damn fine brandy.

“Regarding the incarnations of devils...” Tréville made a point of scanning the near-empty great-room of the Ruddy Duck Inn. “I know I am going to regret asking this. Where are they?”

“Well, as you may have guessed from the bits of unwelcome exchange between Pépin and myself, the inn was much busier a scant three hours ago. In another type of entirely predictable scenario, Porthos got himself on the wrong side of our grumpy little innkeeper, Monsieur Pepin.”He nodded in the direction of the chubby, red-cheeked fellow who was scrubbing empty tables and straightening empty chairs.

Tréville’s eyebrow quirked. “Seems remarkably quiet in here given the hour.”

“Mmmm, yes,” Athos said with a pleased smile as he settled back on his bench. “Pleasant, I think.”

Tréville turned his quirked eyebrow to his second-in-command. “This is an inn. Catering to only a client or two hardly seems like a wise business model.”

Pépin, who was nearby, scrubbing another empty table, overheard Tréville’s remark and boldly chimed in. “Ah! The famous commander of King Louis’ musketeers is a soldier _and_ a scholar!” he exclaimed. “Dear sir! Please allow me to reward your giving voice to such _refreshing_ sensibilities with some complimentary food to accompany that brandy you seem be enjoying.”

Tréville smiled his acceptance of the offer, and the innkeeper scuttled away.

“I thought this was the current popular hangout for the majority of my regiment.” He looked around at the largely deserted great room of the inn. “Perhaps you should tell me the entire story of the incident that got Porthos banned.”

“It’s true that this place has become popular with the garrison crew,” Athos sighed. “At least it was until three hours ago when Porthos’ heroic antics broke a few chairs, several plates, a couple of glasses, one Red Guard jaw and irritated several of the continually frayed nerves of Pépin.”

“And...?”

“Porthos got himself banned from the premises. Aramis followed him along, of course, to preach and pray for penance and peace. d’Artagnan tread on their heels as he is always on alert to learn more lessons of mischief from those two. And -“ He cast an eye around the nearly empty great room of the public house. “- I suppose the rest of the clientele, many of whom you would recognize as your men, went after them to follow the circus, you might say. With that -_ voila!_ \- an inn becomes a church! A library! A peaceful haven of -”

“A Graveyard!” Pépin wailed as he approached and set a plate of fresh fruits and cheeses down between them with a noisy clatter. “It’s a graveyard! I am forced to regret my impatience with the Big Man. My wife and daughters - when they deign to speak to me at all - have berated me at every opportunity since.”

“I think he protests too much. I, for one, enjoy the ambiance.” Athos mumbled into his glass of wine.

“As prodigious as you may think your coin purse is, monsieur,” Pépin growled at the musketeer, “It cannot support me!” With a snap of his damp bar towel, the innkeeper left again.

"You are doing little to improve his mood, my boy,” Tréville said as he watched the tubby little man stomp away.“You mentioned Red Guards being here tonight. Could this evening’s commotion here have had anything to do with the Cardinal’s lost-and-found soldiers?”

“Maybe.” Athos shrugged without serious commitment to any facts. “_Maybe_ they found their way back to Paris. _Maybe_ they stopped by this inn tonight to relieve their parched tongues having spent so many days astray. _Maybe_, having relieved those parched tongues, they began wagging them viciously at my brother Aramis. _Maybe_ there was a regrettable remark made - _maybe_ uttered by Aramis - that had something to do with a Red Guard’s ‘inability to tell East from West’, the ‘sun from the moon’, or said Red Guard’s ‘ass from a hole in the ground’ “.

The blue-eyed soldier paused to thoughtfully turn his eyes up to the rafters as if pondering the correctness of his statement. Shrugging again, he gulped another mouthful of wine, in a gesture that Tréville was now sure was meant to hide a grin, and continued, “I think that’s how the phraseology went. Though, honestly, I did not have time to confirm it myself, because _maybe_ at that point, when the Red Guard threw the first punch, they failed to understand that attacking Aramis in front of Porthos is akin to waving a red flag in front of a bull. As for our youngest brother... Well, his blood runs so hot and high that any excuse for a fight is welcome.”

“And you? Did you witness any of this?”

“Witness?” Athos seemed to pause again to consider his answer. When he brought his wine glass to his lips this time, he was definitely hiding a smile. “_Maybe_.”

Tréville scratched at his jaw and shook his head as if resigned to the fact that there would not be further exploration of the matter. “Well, _maybe_ I could return to the Louvre and spend more hours observing the part-time circus that is the Royal Court. Or I can sit here and enjoy listening to my lieutenant tell me tales of how he and his brothers navigate their way through a myriad of off-duty shenanigans.”

The good captain lifted his glass in a salute and smiled wisely. “My dear sir, will you pay for this excellent brandy that will help me to dutifully forget every word you have uttered tonight before I have to face that Red Devil at tomorrow morning’s briefing?”

Athos answered by lifting his own glass in return, shrugged and said with a visible and unmistakeable smile, “Maybe.”


End file.
